The Gift
by LucyO'Gara
Summary: Someone sold Sinbad's soul to the devil. M/S.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I don't like author's notes so I apologize for this one and promise I won't make a habit of them. The AoS fandom is like three people right now, so thank you for reading, and don't be afraid to say hi! I started off in AoS fandom YEARS ago, shifted to others, took breaks from writing. The pressure of having a huge readership in the Twilight fandom kind of broke me for a while and I had to step back from that profile. Coming back to AoS has given me the chance to just relax and rediscover why I started doing this in the first place. I have 20 or so WIPs right now and am really just enjoying coming back to a series that has always given me a lot of joy despite its many flaws.

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"Do you have any idea what it is?"

Cairpra looks grave. Her face, normally still smooth despite her years, wrinkles with concern. "I do," she says, leaning back in her chair. For the first time Sinbad can remember, she truly looks old. Her shoulders slump under her silver silk shawl and she tucks her sharp elbows in, as if warding off a chill no one else can feel.

Her somber expression, her posture—everything tells Sinbad that the answer he's looking for is very, very bad. He holds his breath, steels himself for whatever the news might be. He can take it. He has to take it.

The eerily skull-shaped mark appeared over his heart a week ago, like a bruise the color of old blood. It doesn't hurt, but refuses to fade. Firouz can make nothing of it; Maeve shuddered when she first saw. So pale already, she turned white as the dead and ordered him to find a fully-trained sorcerer to read this riddle. With Dim-Dim missing he trusts no magic more than Cairpra's, so here they are, in Basra, to learn whatever the aged sorceress can tell them.

"The Greeks called it _oulí_, the Romans _cicatrix_."

"Scar," Firouz murmurs.

Cairpra nods. "Aye. But more than that. It is a mark denoting ownership."

"Ownership…of me?" Fury simmers in Sinbad's gut. Nobody owns him. His hands curl into fists at his sides. He's master of the seven seas, and master of his own self. If somebody wants to own him, they're in for a fight.

The old sorceress's voice is flat. "Of your soul."

"Waaait a minute." Sinbad holds up his hand. "Someone's claimed ownership of my soul? Since when?" He thumps his knuckles on his chest; it makes the same sound it always has. "I don't feel any different." Shouldn't there be some…some sign if his soul's been taken? He feels the same. The mark causes no pain, not even the dull ache of a normal bruise. He doesn't feel hollow or…or anything else that might lead him to believe someone has claimed his soul.

"You won't. Not yet." Cairpra clasps her thin hands together in her lap. She's a small woman and looks smaller hunched over in her chair, old and unhappy. "The claim has been made but possession not yet taken."

"Okay, so who made it, and how do we keep them from taking possession?" Doubar demands. His knuckles crack as he clenches his meaty hands into tight fists, anxious for a fight, for an enemy he can see and touch. Sinbad agrees.

"That is the question, isn't it?" Cairpra shifts her hands, moves in her chair as if in pain. This isn't like her. Sinbad can feel her distress; he appreciates her worry but doesn't need her pain. He and his crew can fix this. They always do.

Maeve, beside Sinbad, is quiet as Rongar. He's grateful for her presence, the comfort of her nearness. On her other side, Firouz stands ready to take in whatever information Cairpra can give. Despite Maeve's temper she's not so excitable as Doubar, and Sinbad is glad of the cooler heads in his crew in this situation. They'll need all the caution and cunning Firouz and Rongar can muster, he can feel it, as well as Maeve's magic. Doubar's strength and protective instinct become assets only after they know where to unleash him.

"Your soul will have been offered in trade to the demon Scratch for something—I don't know what. That mark is his signature, his acceptance of the bargain." Cairpra nods at Sinbad's bared chest. He shrugs his shirt back over his shoulders and tucks the open front around himself, hiding the mark once more.

"But who bargained with my soul in the first place?" Sinbad demands. "I sure as hell didn't."

"Someone with enough of a claim on it that Scratch was willing to trade." Cairpra's bright eyes pierce him. "Think, Sinbad. Think hard. Who might arguably have a claim, no matter how trifling?"

But Sinbad can't think of anyone with any sort of claim on his soul. The most important people in his life are in this room, and he knows with absolute certainty that none of them would offer his soul for any price.

Minutes tick by, everyone searching their memories, digging back deeper into their shared past, trying to find an answer, any answer, to this puzzle. Sinbad closes his eyes, breathes deeply. His soul. He's accepted the fact that he may lose his life at any time —his dangerous career as an adventurer all but ensures he won't die of old age. But his soul? This is something he never thought he'd lose. You can't lose it by accident, can you? Have it stolen, like a coin or a horse? You have to willingly give it away, and he can't remember ever even coming close to doing so.

A soft intake of breath next to him forces his eyes open. He blinks, finds Maeve's beautiful, troubled gaze. "Rumina." He can barely hear her.

Rumina? She's their enemy, yes, but… "I think I'd remember if I gave her my soul."

"You gave her yourself. In the City of Mist, in exchange for Serendib." Maeve turns to Cairpra. "Is that close enough? It's the only thing that makes sense. Sinbad and Rumina made a deal, trading for a captive young girl. But then Serendib and I together were able to best Rumina's magic, so Sinbad said the deal was off. Rumina didn't exactly agree, but she left without him."

Cairpra nods slowly, mulling the details. "Legally tricky," she says, tenting her fingers. "Was the deal fully struck? Did the sorceress give the girl to you? Did she take possession of Sinbad?"

He nods slowly, dread suddenly filling him. Gods, this can't be happening, can it? Could Rumina really have the ability to sell his soul to the devil because of some hastily-proposed, altruistic deal he'd nearly forgotten?

"That can't be right," Doubar argues. "She left without him! Surely that means she has no claim?"

Cairpra's face remains troubled. "If Scratch has approved the deal, that means he thinks she has a true claim."

Beside Sinbad, Maeve swears in her native language. Despite the situation, Sinbad thinks it's sexy as hell.

"So what do we do?" Firouz shoves his curly hair out of his face. "Is there some sort of…demon law court to appeal to?"

"No." Cairpra shifts again. "Scratch claims souls all year long, but he cannot gather them until the eve of Samhain."

It's not a date or a word Sinbad is familiar with, but beside him Maeve raises her head. "All Souls Night."

"Aye," Cairpra confirms. "On that night, he will attempt to collect the souls he believes are his due. If he is correct, that soul is doomed."

"If not, it goes free?" Firouz asks.

The old sorceress nods.

"That's not good enough!" Doubar pounds a fist on the table, rattling the whole room. "There has to be another way!"

Cairpra doesn't look hopeful. "I don't know of one. Besides the Tam Lin Protocol, of course. But I'm quite vague as to its details."

Sinbad doesn't recognize the term, but Maeve's head snaps up. She narrows her eyes at Cairpra warily, and he can feel uneasy tension leaking from his sorceress. It's such a strange reaction, and it puts Sinbad instantly on alert.

"I will look in my books. Maeve, if you would go through Omar's library? I make no promises, Sinbad. But I will do all I can. You are dear to Dim-Dim, and dear to me. We will not let this happen without a fight."

The Savage Sultan will no doubt open his library for them, but Sinbad doesn't feel any better. Scratch has claimed his soul. If Cairpra and Maeve can find no recourse in their books, what then?

* * *

The crew huddle close together as they make their way toward Omar of Basra's magnificent white palace. Maeve's arm brushes Sinbad's with each step, Doubar just as near on his other side, Firouz and Rongar nearly treading on their heels. It's like his friends are willing their presence to protect him from the looming threat of Scratch. Impossible, but he appreciates it nonetheless.

"Maeve?" The back of his hand grazes hers. She turns her head, waiting willingly enough for his next question. He's hesitant, due to her reaction to the subject at Cairpra's, but he needs to know. "What's the Tam Lin Protocol?" His mouth stumbles over the unfamiliar words.

Her open, lovely face immediately slams shut, the warmth in her dark eyes disappearing. "I don't know."

"But you know something." He knows better than to prod her like this, but right now he's too desperate to care. Whatever knowledge she has, he needs. It could mean the difference between life and death, salvation and doom.

Maeve's big, dark eyes flick from one face to another; she dislikes being the center of attention like this, much preferring to deal with people one-on-one. Her steps slow; Sinbad unconsciously matches her shortened strides. His sorceress is beautiful—the most beautiful girl he's ever seen—and keenly intelligent. Loyal to the grave, once her trust has been earned. But she's also prickly, and evasive about her past. Much like the delicate roses their mentor Dim-Dim loves so much, she's difficult to grasp. Rush in too swiftly or without enough care, and she'll wound as surely as if she had thorns of her own. Like their mentor's flowers, she must be handled gently and with forethought.

"Please, Maeve." He touches her wrist lightly, her milky skin cool under his callused fingertips. She watches his hand, eyes full of caution. Touching her is always a risk. Sometimes she welcomes it, other times not, and he hasn't yet learned what triggers her reactions. He wishes he knew. Upsetting her upsets him, too, and he's not sure what to make of that. He only knows that he feels it, feels her, deeply, without understanding any of it.

Now she slows still more, nearly stopping until his fingers fall away from her delicate wrist. Her eyes drop and she crosses her arms tightly over her chest, as she often does when she's upset. Though the gesture looks impatient, Sinbad feels rather that she's hugging herself, physically holding back or holding in…something. She shakes her head lightly, tossing back her flame-colored hair, and increases her pace once again.

"It's a story," she says, words clipped, eyes fixed on the worn street in front of them. "Not from my people, but the next island over. Just a fireside tale."

"About what?" Doubar demands. Though he has learned to appreciate and even like their resident sorceress, he has little patience for her moods. They often bicker back and forth like siblings, with the occasional blowup Sinbad has been fortunate enough to smooth over thus far. What will happen to their relationship if his soul really is doomed, he doesn't know.

Maeve frowns at the big man, but her eyes return quickly to the ground. She's silent.

To keep Doubar from making things worse, Sinbad risks another attempt. His fingers flex, the pads of his fingertips finding Maeve's as they walk, tucked under her crossed arm. She shies away instantly, breaking contact. Irritated, she favors him with a dark glare. Her gorgeous, lush lips compress into a tight, displeased line, but at least now she's frustrated with him and not Doubar.

"Tam Lin was designated as payment to hell by the queen of the fairies," she says, voice tight, words clipped. "His pregnant lover showed up at the sacrifice, claimed him, and won the right to keep him. I told you, it's just a story."

"And you don't know what the protocol is?" Firouz asks from behind them.

"I already said I didn't," she snaps.

Sinbad holds up a hand to his men, warning them to drop the subject. He can see from every line in Maeve's body that she's about to snap. Why, he doesn't know, but she radiates tension as a fire radiates heat. Her arms are like stone across her chest, her shoulders raised and curled slightly forward, her spine a rod of iron. Her short, quick steps look like an escape attempt, but from what? A children's fireside tale? It makes no sense, but he's wise enough to stop his men from making things any worse.

* * *

Omar looks grave when they explain their request to him, and he personally leads them to his library, instructing the guards outside the double doors that the crew are to have unlimited access, day or night. Maeve, somewhat recovered, charms the older ruler, as always. Sinbad secretly suspects that Omar would like to offer for Maeve's hand but knows better, understanding that the proud Celt would never submit to life in a harem.

Once inside the impressive library, Firouz and Maeve immediately get to work. She finds the section of magic books, he history, and both heft impressive stacks of dusty tomes to sturdy low tables drenched in sunlight from large windows above. Rongar settles with Firouz and so does Doubar after a moment, grumbling about not being worth much as a scholar. Sinbad sits cross-legged on a cushion across from Maeve.

She looks up in surprise. "What are you doing?"

"Helping. It's my soul we're trying to save, after all."

She considers him for a long moment. Those dark eyes, so unusual among her fair people, hide so much. He's learned to read more in the cast of her lips, the shape of her mouth, the tilt of her head. Most eyes reveal; hers conceal. He's curious where she learned such a skill.

"How many languages can you read?" she asks finally. "If it's just Latin and Arabic, you're better off helping Firouz."

Sinbad takes a look at the pile on the table. All of the documents look ancient, and they're covered in a thick layer of sandy dust. There are loose papers, rolled-up scrolls, and leather-bound books all jumbled together—though Omar's library is grouped by subject, there seems to be no discernible organization within categories. Maeve pulls a large bound book toward her, stirring up dust. She sneezes, the sound a high little squeak, and Sinbad's forced to hide a smile. For all her temper and pride, sometimes she's unbearably cute.

The book's leather spine cracks and pops as she opens it, evidence of age and little use. She scans the introductory pages quickly, finger skimming along lines of elaborate, handwritten calligraphy as she reads, then shakes her head, closes the book, and puts it aside.

Turning his attention to the task at hand, Sinbad reaches for a scroll. The silken binding cord is so old that it crumbles in his fingers when he tries to untie it. Slow, careful as Firouz when he's handling his exploding sticks, Sinbad unrolls the scroll. It's papyrus rather than paper, and he doesn't recognize the symbols on it at all.

"What is this?"

Maeve looks up from her own work. "Ancient Etruscan." She scans the foreign symbols. "And useless. It's a collection of spells for conjuring rain. You can set it aside." She turns back to the paper in her hand.

"It's not what we're looking for, but rain spells aren't useless," Sinbad protests. "This isn't your island, remember."

She lifts her dark eyes to him without raising her head. "Don't remind me. But the very fact that there are so many rain spells there is evidence that none of them actually work."

"Oh." He looks at the papyrus one last time, the inked symbols much faded with the passage of time. Ancient Etruscan. How old is the scroll in his hands? And how did Maeve, a barbarian from the far northwest edge of the world, come to learn its tongue? "How many languages do you know?" he finds himself asking. The abrupt realization that he knows virtually nothing about this woman is both shocking and unwelcome. He knows her moods, her sarcastic sense of humor, how to read emotion into the tilt of her head and pace of her breath. He knows the color of her milk-pale skin by heart, the length of her dark eyelashes—even the taste of her mouth, from one short, furiously passionate kiss. But he has no idea who she was before he met her, before Dim-Dim took her as his apprentice. Did she grow up in a village, or a city? An isolated farm? Does Eire even have cities? The Romans refused to set foot on her island, afraid of the rumors of the fierce, wild people living there. Generations later, those rumors still abound.

Hell, he doesn't even know how old she is.

She watches him warily, and Sinbad can see that something in his voice or expression has set her off again. "I don't know exactly," she says slowly, setting aside the paper in her hands without taking her eyes from him. She reaches for another. "I've always had a knack for picking them up."

"You don't have much of an accent anymore. You used to."

"That's on purpose." She relaxes slightly and breaks eye contact, turning to the new document in her hands. "I'll never fit in here, but at least I don't have to sound so…foreign."

"Why do you want to fit in?" Sinbad frowns. She's perfect the way she is, prickly temper and all. He doesn't like the thought of her trying to be anything else.

She snorts, and an unexpected smile lifts one side of her mouth. "Look at me, Sinbad. I told you, I'll never fit in. Even if I decided to wear long skirts and cover my head like your women do, it wouldn't work. I'm just too different. But making some small concessions, like the accent, makes things…a little easier."

She's right, of course. Even were she to dress in southern clothing, she's too tall and slender, her skin too pale, to be mistaken for anything but what she is: a northerner. The delicate, regal set of her elegant features, the flames of her red hair—she's perfectly beautiful and perfectly barbarian. And he realizes he misses the sweet lilt of her native accent. It trickled away so slowly that he hadn't consciously noticed.

"Say something in your mother tongue." The request is out of his mouth before he can think better of it.

_ "Imigh uaim agus fág orm féin." _

Her tone tells him that what she's just said is rude at the very least, if not downright vulgar. He doesn't care. Her language somehow sounds exactly as he imagined it would—unfamiliar and yet seductive, the syllables round and soft, pleasant to the ear. Impulsively, he reaches across the table and strokes his fingers lightly down her cheek. "Thank you."

She stares at him for a moment, shocked. Then she laughs, a low, sweet chuckle. "_Cad a dhéanfaidh mé leat?_ Go help Firouz, southern boy."

He lets her shoo him away. "Southern boy? How old are you?" he demands, voice light, teasing. Inside he's truly curious but doubtful she'll answer.

She grabs a scrap of blank paper and one of the quills prepped and waiting on the table, and writes. Holding it up, she asks, "Can you read that?"

"No." It's just a couple of nonsense symbols again.

"Then _go_." She points imperiously to Firouz's table.

Sinbad rolls his eyes, grabs the scrap of paper from her fingers, and goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

They leave the library a little after midnight—all but Maeve, who promises she'll retire to her room in the palace soon, her attention on the book in her hand and not on Sinbad.

He tries to sleep but can't, tossing in the fine bed, head full of worries and vague fears of the unknown. Will he die if Scratch succeeds in taking his soul? Or will he exist in some sort of…half life? Surely it will hurt? Scratch hates him, considers him one of his greatest enemies. He'll delight in tormenting him in any way possible. Those possibilities haunt Sinbad's thoughts and make sleep impossible. He usually considers his vivid imagination an asset—it has saved him many times when escaping a bad situation called for unorthodox measures. Now it plagues him as his body craves rest. He can imagine innumerable terrible things Scratch might do to him, to the people he loves. He struggles, hating uncertainty, hating not knowing what will happen, if there's any way he can fight back.

Finally Sinbad rises. Lying in bed staring at shadows is doing him no good. He throws his clothes back on and exits his room, listening to the nighttime noises around him. Doubar snores loudly from the room next door. Across the corridor he hears only silence from Rongar and Firouz's closed doors.

Maeve's chamber is on the other side of his, but he hasn't heard her return. She must still be in the library. One side of his mouth curls in a lopsided smile. She gets wrapped up in her work as easily as Firouz does, though she claims to be no scholar. He isn't sure even now whether she's still attacking the problem of Scratch or lost on some tangent of magical theory.

No. No, that's unkind of him, and isn't true, besides. He lights a candle and turns toward the library, rebuking himself for the thought. Once her trust is earned Maeve's loyalty doesn't falter, and she's every bit as stubborn as he is. He has no doubt she's still on task despite the hour, the black night soft and heavy around them.

Omar's palace is richer than the Caliph's, but Sinbad doesn't spare a glance for the priceless _objets d'art_ lining the walls. He isn't one for opulence. His father was a rich merchant, an important man in Baghdad and a friend of the Caliph despite not being of noble ancestry. Sinbad was even affianced to the Caliph's niece, Leah, for a time when they were children. After their parents' deaths, the Caliph allowed Doubar and Sinbad to live in the palace under the care of his advisor, the sorcerer Dim-Dim. Sinbad is grateful for the old ruler's kindness but never took the luxuries of palace life for granted. He has little taste for such riches, anyway; all he wants in the world is his little ship and the freedom it brings him.

And his soul. He would really prefer not to lose that.

As he suspected, Maeve is still in the library.

She's stretched out on her stomach on a thick, soft rug, propped up on her elbows as she reads. Several candles burn on the low table beside her. The whole palace is quiet, guards gone from the library doors. Sinbad shuts them as quietly as he can when he enters.

She looks up, annoyed at first, but her face smooths when she recognizes him. "I had a feeling you wouldn't sleep."

He sits near her, cross-legged, watching as she carefully turns a page in the large book in front of her. He recognizes the script as Sanskrit but cannot read it. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

"With all these books and an unlimited supply of good candles? Please. Why would I waste time sleeping?" She grins at him, allowing the bookworm in her to show. She denies her love of the written word, claiming that her scholarly pursuits are all for a purpose—one she still refuses to explain, though Sinbad knows by now it has something to do with that bird of hers—but he knows better. She wouldn't have mastered so many languages if she didn't love knowledge for its own sake. In this sense she's very much like Firouz, but Sinbad will never tell her so. He can pretend she's kept this secret. That she even bothers is kind of adorable.

"Found anything interesting?"

"Many things." She sighs, and blows a wayward curl from her forehead. "None of them salient, however." Her delicate fingers turn another page. The way she touches the parchment is near reverence. "The closest I've come is a treatise by Jābir ibn Hayyān about the western vision of the devil versus the eastern."

"I thought Scratch hailed from the west?"

"I have no idea where he came from." Maeve's forehead wrinkles as she frowns, and he can see tension gather in her spine. "I think the Christians fear him more than most, and they've pushed north and west in the centuries since their supposed savior died in Jerusalem." The darkness in her voice, low and bitter, warns Sinbad not to push. There's pain here, and he doesn't know enough about her to guess what's caused it. "Ibn Hayyān says some of them believe he's a fallen angel cast out of heaven."

"Some of mine do as well." Sinbad rubs his chin. He hasn't shaved in a couple of days and it's starting to itch. "Others believe he's the strongest of the jinn. When I met him he referred to himself as the devil. Nothing more."

"Well, I fail to see how it matters, at any rate. All texts agree that he loves to meddle in human affairs and doesn't play fair. You already know that."

Yes, he does. His first meeting with Scratch nearly ended in disaster and now the demon hates him and wants his soul.

"Sinbad, I'm worried." The frank honesty in her open face startles him, the concern in her dark, shadowed eyes laid bare. She's usually such an evasive creature, uncomfortable voicing emotions other than anger. There's a deep capacity for love in her—he sees it in her kindness for the less fortunate they meet, the people they do their best to help. But she struggles, as if she's unable to reconcile that sweetness with the tough girl she always has to be.

"I know." He's worried, too. He moves to lie on his stomach as she is, at right angles with her. He rests his chin on his folded hands and stares, unseeing, at her open book. "There's just so much we don't know. I hate going into a fight blind."

"I know." She's been with him long enough to understand that much. Doubar is rash, but Sinbad likes to be prepared. He's lost too much in his life—lost too many people—not to fear the consequences of acting without thinking. Recklessness gets people killed.

"This Tam Lin Protocol Cairpra mentioned. I know it upsets you. Why?" Ordinarily he knows better than to pry. But the night is soft around them, cool air blowing lightly through open windows. The palace steeps heavily in sleep. It's as if they're the only two people in the world.

Maeve's body shifts slightly away from his, and she refuses to look at him. He hears her exhale slowly, watches as her lovely fawn-colored eyes stare into a candle flame. "Fairies don't pay tithes to hell, in human souls or anything else. They're none of his."

Sinbad doesn't know what sort of answer he expected, but this isn't it. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She eyes him, dangerous, daring him to continue.

"Sorry. I just…fairies? You believe in fairies?"

She chuckles dryly. "You're wearing a brand from hell. I don't think you're in any position to tell me what exists out there and what doesn't."

"Touché." Still…fairies? He assumed they really were the stuff of children's fireside tales. Of course, so is the skull-shaped brand on his chest, and the creature that gave it to him. He rubs the bridge of his nose and brushes the hair out of his eyes. Without his headband it's too long now. He'll have to cut it soon. "I don't suppose talking to Rumina or Scratch would help."

"You always tell us never to lose hope. But in this case? Doubtful."

Yeah, he figured as much.

"Do you remember when Rumina transformed herself to look like me?" he asks, staring into the darkness. Dim moonlight glows through the windows but the aisles between bookcases are shrouded in shadow.

"Of course I do. She almost ruined your good name before Cairpra and I were able to free you from her spell."

"That's what I'm most afraid of."

"What is?" She turns her head, resting her cheek on her hands, watching him with those sweet, dark eyes. They're soft now, gentle as the eyes of a deer.

"Not that Scratch will kill me, but that he'll be able to control me. Force me to do things—terrible things." Sinbad swallows. He isn't sure what spurred him to admit this. Her eyes. The silence. The soft night. Maybe all of it. He isn't often vulnerable but he feels so now. "When Rumina tried to ruin my reputation, at least it wasn't really me. But if Scratch takes ownership of my soul, it _will_ be me."

"Your body, maybe. But not you. Not really." She shakes her head and shifts, one hand reaching slowly towards him. Her palm is warm when she cups his cheek, stroking her thumb gently over his stubble. "You're a good man, Sinbad."

"I've always tried to be." He blinks slowly, half afraid that when he closes his eyes she'll vanish. But her hand remains steady on his cheek, her soft eyes gentle. She shows him no pity, which he's grateful for. He couldn't bear that from her. "But if Scratch can claim my soul and use me as a servant of darkness, what was the point of it all?"

"The fight against darkness is its own point, its own end." Her hand withdraws, and he feels suddenly cold. "You taught me that."

"I did?" He's honestly surprised. She's fiery and tempestuous, and has a notoriously short temper. But never has he thought she might be tempted by the darkness. She's too pure for that. Not innocent—that's not what he means. He has no doubt she's seen as much in her life as he has, if not more. But there's something about her, something that feels uncorruptible. Raw and honest. He can't explain it, but he feels it deeply.

"You did." She smiles softly and leans forward. Her mouth touches his gently, just the lightest brush of her lips against his before she settles back again. "Dim-Dim tried. I don't know, maybe I wasn't ready to hear it yet. But you don't lecture. You just…are." She shrugs helplessly. "I don't know how better to say it."

"You said it just fine." He stretches toward her and rests his forehead gently against hers. "Thank you." These small moments of tenderness from her feel so much greater for their scarcity. He and Maeve are so often at odds, arguing about every little thing, and even after more than a year together he still doesn't know what will and won't set her off. But when she's open like this, soft and welcoming, it feels like she's given him the world. Her trust in him, her faith that he won't hurt her, is a greater treasure than Omar will ever own.

"We'll fix this, Sinbad." Her breath is warm on his skin, and a little burst of pleasure shivers down his back. "The world needs you."

Does it? Does it really? He does what he can, but sometimes it's hard to believe he's made much of a difference at all.

"Besides, I don't believe the master of the seven seas would ever go down without a fight."

Despite himself, he laughs. "Oh, firebrand." Her faith overwhelms him. She's seen plenty of darkness in her life; that much he knows. But she chooses to believe in him anyway and that choice, that trust, bowls him over. He reaches for her, and for the first time gathers her in his arms, tucked close against his body. The thought that anyone, even Rumina, would bargain with his soul so callously has shaken him deeply, and right now he needs a little faith.

Maeve doesn't fight him. She lets him hold her, wrapped tight in his strong arms, as if she knows this is what he so badly needs. She's warm and solid, her body soft and so, so comforting. It eases the hollow ache in his gut, the pain of uncertainty and fear. He shifts onto his side on the deep, plush carpet, her slim back pressed against his chest, her arms sliding over his, warming him inside as well as out. She turns her head and kisses the corner of his mouth gently. "Dim-Dim says everything happens for a reason. I'm not sure I'm ready to believe that, but I do believe that even in the darkest storm there's always hope."

Sinbad isn't sure he agrees with Dim-Dim, either. Not now. Not with his soul at stake. But Maeve believes in him. Her faith gives him the strength he needs to move forward, to press on from the dark hopelessness that surrounds him. She trusts him. She believes in him. For her sake, and his own, he'll do the same. He has to.

* * *

Sinbad wakes early the next morning still on the thick rug in the library. He's shifted onto his back, Maeve a ball of warmth curled into his side, her cheek on his chest, ruddy curls spilling over his shirt.

Dermott clucks at him reprovingly from the table.

"Quiet, featherbrain." Sinbad tightens his arms around the sleeping girl. "I won't hurt her." He's woken many a time with a woman in his arms, both of them usually naked, often deliciously sore. But he's never felt closer to a person in his life than he does to Maeve right now. No woman certainly, and not even Doubar or Dim-Dim.

She's so beautiful, this strange northern girl. Damaged in some way; that's been clear to him since they met. But not broken. Whatever has happened to her, she's still standing.

And she's choosing to be here with him now. He needed hope last night and she gave it, gave him her unwavering faith, her trust. He holds her now as she shifts, waking with the thin, early light filtering through the open windows. Dermott puffs his breast feathers and chirrups at her, scolding like a jay.

She raises her head from Sinbad's chest, pushing out of his arms. He doesn't like that. He's never before wanted to keep hold of a woman when she turns from him, but suddenly, with this one, he does. Her warm, steady presence lulled him to sleep last night when he thought nothing would, and he doesn't want to lose that calm.

"Hush, Dermott," she says, voice full of sleep as she pushes copper curls out of her eyes. "_Ní raibh gnéas agam leis_."

The hawk scolds again, irritated. Maeve only chuckles.

Whether the bird understands multiple languages or it's some weird symbiosis thing, Sinbad doesn't know. He figures she'll tell him when she's ready. Eventually. Maybe. Right now, the hawk's in his way. He shoos at Dermott with his hand, then wraps Maeve in his arms once more.

He's half sure she'll push him away but she doesn't, instead slipping her arms around his shoulders and holding him close. She's sleep-sweet with the languor of early morning and Sinbad kisses her forehead gently as their bodies slowly wake. They're both early risers and don't tend to laze around even on days off, but for a moment more, just a moment, he wants to hold her. To feel the steady warmth of her body against his, willingly shared.

"Thank you." The words are quiet but heartfelt. Day by day he's learning how much he needs her, how much he's come to rely on her. Not just for her magic, but for everything else she is, too.

"I didn't do anything, but you're welcome anyway." Still somewhat groggy with sleep, her voice once again holds the sweet lilt of her native accent. Her brown eyes meet his and she kisses his cheek lightly before rising. "Come on, Dermott. I need breakfast first if you're going to yell at me all day."

* * *

Maeve's sweetness doesn't last.

"Go help Firouz," she snaps at Sinbad by midmorning. "Go pester Cairpra. Hell, dust the fucking library for all I care. Just leave me alone!"

He goes, taking an amused Doubar with him. Rongar stays to assist Firouz with the history texts but Doubar was right about not being worth much as a scholar and his constant grumbling has put even easygoing Firouz on edge.

Cairpra welcomes them warmly enough, and offers them tea, which they decline. No one has had stomach for food since yesterday's news, not even Doubar. They sit with the sorceress at her little table; she rests her hand gently on Sinbad's shoulder for a moment before clasping both in front of her.

"I have been through most of my books—my library is not nearly so vast as Omar's, you understand. I've found nothing helpful yet."

Sinbad's heart drops. He thought he had steeled himself against just such words, but the way his gut twists tells him otherwise.

"But remember, Sinbad, Basra is a haven for the study and practice of magic. Last night I put in a few inquiries with people I believe might have more knowledge on this than I. I am no demonologist, you understand."

"Please tell me you've heard some good news." Doubar's face seems set in a permanent scowl. This is not normal for the big man, who is usually so merry. Sinbad hates it. This curse may be on him, but everyone around him feels the strain.

"Possibly, though not so good as you might wish." Cairpra offers Doubar a commiserating smile. "A scholar of magical history has recently taken up residence here, a man by the name of Sikandar al-Alawy."

"Is he a demono-thingy?" Doubar asks.

"A demonologist. No, not he. Nor does he practice magic himself, as I understand. But he has traveled widely in the west, gathering history, and claims to be the expert on the Tam Lin Protocol."

Sinbad's attention perks. "You mentioned that yesterday." Maeve doesn't like this option, whatever it is. But he's willing to try anything. His soul is on the line.

"I did. It would not be my first choice, understand that, Sinbad. A magical protocol, in a case like this, is…a loophole, if you will." She cocks her head to the side, searching for the words to explain. "I'm sorry. This is somewhat difficult. You are not scholars of magic, and I am not a teacher. Dim-Dim's presence would make this much easier."

Sinbad aches for his old master as well. Dim-Dim's presence always makes everything easier. He trusts Cairpra implicitly but Dim-Dim is the closest thing he has to a father. In his heart he knows that having the old man around would make him feel better, even if for no other reason than his love.

"You see, Sinbad, magic is very much a science, though your friend Firouz would faint to hear me say so. Like science, it follows immutable rules, rules that cannot be broken. The rules are different from those of the natural sciences—physics and biology, for example—and that is what creates such a stark divide between the two disciplines. Magic does not follow the laws of natural science and indeed allows us to break them. That is where Firouz has such trouble, because to him, the laws of his discipline are unbreakable."

"What does that have to do with Sinbad?" Doubar demands. He's quickly losing patience, not that he typically has much anyway.

"Scratch is bound by magical laws, just as Maeve or I or Dim-Dim. Thus, he cannot gather Sinbad's soul until Samhain. Possibly he may not be able to claim it at all, depending on whether Rumina had the right to sell it." She sets her elbows on the table and tents her small hands in front of her face. "These rules are binding. But a magical protocol is a…grey area. As with a legal loophole, it is a way to circumvent the rules."

"So it's a dirty trick. It's not playing fair." Sinbad understands. "Honestly, I don't really care. Not with my soul on the line. Not when my opponent is Scratch." Scratch never fights fair; that's part of who the demon is.

"I don't blame you. I am saying, though, that a magical protocol should be used only as a last resort, and very, very carefully. If the procedure isn't followed precisely, it can have disastrous consequences."

"More disastrous than Sinbad losing his soul to Scratch?" Doubar laughs.

Cairpra does not. "Yes," she says simply.

Sinbad sobers. She has his attention. "What are the procedures for the Tam Lin Protocol? What do I have to do?" Maeve won't like him pursuing this route, but so far it seems the only one available to him. "Maeve told us the story of Tam Lin yesterday, after some urging. But she says she doesn't know anything about the protocol."

"She would well know the tale. It hails from a branch of her people." Cairpra drops her hands. She looks old again, as she did yesterday when she saw the brand on his chest. Her bright black eyes look directly at Sinbad. "Be careful with her, boy. She will not like this path, though it may be the only one open to you."

"I know that." He's always careful with her…now, anyway. He wasn't when they first met, which he regrets. But he didn't know how much she would come to mean to him, how deeply he would care for her. From their first meeting, when she and Dermott knocked him on his ass, he felt in his bones that she would upset his world, and he resented her for it. Fought it, for a time. He didn't know that having his world so altered could be such a good thing—how could he?

"If you already know the tale, there's little more information I can give you," Cairpra continues. The way she watches Sinbad unsettles him. "I would much rather you speak to al-Alawy directly. Because you must be so very careful, Sinbad. If you choose to follow the Tam Lin Protocol, you must do it precisely."

"Disastrous consequences. I get it." He makes a face. "Where can I find him?"

"He's at a conference today and won't be disturbed." The old sorceress rolls her eyes. "Scholars. Come at midday tomorrow and I will take you to him."

* * *

They walk slowly on their way back to the palace. Sinbad's head tumbles with all the information Cairpra just gave him, and he isn't sure how he feels. Part of him wants to seek out al-Alawy now, despite Cairpra's warning. He isn't usually an impatient man, but having to wait because of a scholarly conference grates at him. He wants to act, not wait. Hell, he doesn't even know what kind of timeline he's working with. He has no idea when Samhain is, only that on that night Scratch will attempt to claim his soul. He rubs the brand over his heart, though it doesn't hurt. He hates it, and he can feel its maleficent presence like poison in his blood.

"Cairpra talked for a good hour," Doubar says beside him. "So why does it seem like we learned next to nothing?"

"Because we still have no solid answers." Instead of a plan, they have a children's fireside tale from the far northwestern edge of the known world. He knows Cairpra is doing her best, as they all are, but he's frustrated. Scratch is a powerful demon—the most powerful demon of them all, if he's to be believed. So why does no one seem to know anything about him?

Doubar heaves an irritated sigh from deep in his gut. "I'm not losing you, little brother." His blue-gray eyes glance to the side, focusing on Sinbad for a moment before looking away again. "That's not an option."

Yeah, Sinbad knows. If Scratch succeeds in gaining his soul, Doubar will be the one hurt most. He's much older, Sinbad a surprise late addition to the family after what he's been told was a series of miscarriages and the deaths of two infant sisters. After their parents' deaths at sea, Doubar helped Dim-Dim raise Sinbad. Aside from Sinbad's time as a cabin boy to Aiden and the Adventurer crew, they've never been apart.

Despite Doubar's age, Sinbad can't help but often feel like the older brother. Doubar has many wonderful qualities—loyalty and strength chief among them—but he's not a leader by nature. Sinbad is. He'll never tell his brother, but he knows how much Doubar relies on him. Of the two of them he's the thinker, the planner. He has a much more rational mind, and far more patience.

But Doubar is capable of greater joy, Sinbad thinks. He lives very much in the present, something Sinbad often struggles with. They work well together, and Sinbad considers his brother indispensable to him. But what will become of the happy giant if Scratch wins? Sinbad doesn't know, and he's afraid. Rongar and Firouz got along fine before him and will find new places after, should the need arise. Maeve, he has no doubt, will continue doggedly searching for Dim-Dim with or without him. But what about Doubar?

"I'm thinking about that tale." Doubar's steps slow further. They've reached one of the city's marketplaces but in the heat of the afternoon many stalls sit empty. Later, as the fierce Arabian sun ebbs, the city will come alive once more with the cries of hawkers selling their wares.

"What about it?"

"In the story, a girl had to challenge Scratch. Not the man, what's-his-name. Do you suppose that's part of the protocol?"

Sinbad has considered this. "Until we can speak to this al-Alawy, I don't want to make any guesses. Worrying about it is just a waste of time." He's worrying anyway, of course. They all are. But he's the captain. He needs to put on a brave face for his crew.

"Well, I just wondered. Maeve was so upset yesterday, even more than usual for her. What if she thinks you'll ask her to challenge Scratch for you?"

He's considered this, as well, but her anger still makes no sense to him. She's a brave fighter, fierce to the point of foolishness sometimes. If she could challenge Scratch this minute, Sinbad has no doubt she'd jump at the chance. As protective as he is of her, she feels the same of him. Which seems silly, for he never needs protecting, but emotions don't always make sense.

"I don't know," he tells his brother as they pass the palace guards and enter the soft tranquility of the courtyard. Orange and pomegranate trees grow lush and green around a long reflecting pool. "I think she would do it."

"She might try," Doubar allows. "I don't know that she'd win. Scratch is strong, little brother. How would you explain it to Dim-Dim if Scratch killed her on your watch?"

Sinbad's jaw tightens. This isn't a road of questioning he wants to walk, but Doubar has a point. How much is he willing to let Maeve or anyone else risk, attempting to save him?


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I've taken a few historical liberties here, which I apologize for. The story of Tam Lin isn't recorded until the 1500s (though it was probably in oral circulation well before). Tea had not left China yet at the time the Sinbad stories are set (roughly 8th/9th century). But the writers of the show made far worse historical errors so I don't feel too bad. ;-)_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"You really should at least try to go to bed."

Maeve doesn't answer.

"Maeve?"

No response.

"Firebrand." He closes his eyes for a long moment, gathering patience. It's night again, beyond late, and he and Maeve are once more alone in the library. "I'm really no good at guessing what you're mad about, so will you just tell me?" He shifts to sit close beside her, so close he can feel the heat of her body like sunshine on his skin. She glances at him and then away again, shifting the loose sheets of parchment in front of her, moving the top one to the side and focusing on the next.

"Is it because we're going to talk to that historian guy tomorrow? Al-Alawy?"

"No, Sinbad." She discards the sheet in front of her, reaching for the next without looking at him.

"Your words say no, but your mouth says yes." He reaches for her, touching the petal-soft curve of her lower lip, now flattened into a thin line.

"Fuck off." She ducks her head, evading his touch.

"Well, if it's not that, then what?" His patience is wearing thin. Truly, he has no idea what she's angry about at this point. He stopped pestering her when she shooed him from the library, and forced himself not to begin again once he and Doubar returned. He wants to be around her—despite her anger, he finds her presence oddly soothing. Maybe it's her admission of trust from the night before. Maybe it's the next phase in their ever-evolving relationship, as they transition back and forth between friends, not-friends, and something…something more than friends. He doesn't know what pulls him back, exactly, but he feels it.

Omar insisted they dine with him today, and Maeve still wears the sea-blue silk provided for her. She left the sultan's dining hall and returned directly to the library, to her search for anything that might help solve this conundrum with Scratch. The color made her hair glow with red-gold radiance in the firelit dining hall; even now in near darkness the curls closest to her candle glint and glitter like threads of precious metal.

"Are you mad at me for offering to trade for Serendib in the first place?" he asks cautiously.

"No." She finally turns and really looks at him, a puzzled frown wrinkling her brow. "Why would I be upset with you for trying to save that child?"

"Well, I kind of am." He rubs the back of his head. "Not for trying to save Serendib. But for acting without thinking. Being reckless, like I always tell Doubar not to be." He turns toward the candle illuminating her work, watching the way its warm light dances over the pages. There's magic here, in the play of firelight over the written word, the silence of the palace sunk deep in dreams. "Maybe we could have thought of something else, some other way. I don't regret saving her. But I regret that it left me vulnerable."

Maeve's frown deepens. "You couldn't have known what would happen. No one could have. And remember, it's only a guess that Rumina is behind all this."

"No, she is. I can feel it." He's no sorcerer, but he trusts his intuition and right now his gut tells him Maeve was right. Rumina did this to him. Exactly why, he's not sure, but he can feel her treachery mixed with Scratch's sadism every time he sees the brand on his chest. They know what they've done, and wherever they are, they're loving it.

"I think so, too, but we have no proof." Maeve shakes her head a little. "And anyway, you couldn't have foreseen this. Firouz didn't know what that mark was, and neither did I. We had to come to Basra, to some of the best sorcerers in the world, to find an answer."

"Still." He passes his fingers idly over the candle flame, making it dance. The brief, small warmth is little comfort. "I'm better than that. I don't make stupid mistakes. Or at least I thought I didn't."

"Everyone makes mistakes?" She offers the platitude as a question; she knows it holds no solace.

"Not me. Not like this." Except he has. He did. He drops his head, letting his hair slide over his forehead, into his eyes. Before he can push it back Maeve's hand is there, fingers winding through the silky brown strands. She combs it back gently, a thoughtful look replacing the irritation he felt from her earlier.

"You want so badly to be perfect," she says quietly, dropping her hand from his hair to his cheek. "But nobody is. Not even you."

He turns his head to the side and kisses her palm, receiving a smile in return. He loves those smiles, the tender ones he sees so seldom. He likes to think they're only for him. Not Dermott. Not Doubar. Just him.

"Why are you mad at me?" His voice drops, low and quiet, and he keeps her hand against his cheek with one of his own.

Her smile fades, as he knew it would, but she doesn't shut down completely. Her eyes are so dark in the weak candlelight, but he can see the gold running through them like veins of ore when she turns to the light.

"It's because you don't want me doing that protocol thing, whatever it is."

She frowns—not with anger this time, but contemplation. "Maybe. I don't know."

"You don't know why you're mad at me?" He raises an eyebrow. It's absurd…and yet, it's completely like her.

The pretty gleam in her eye turns slightly menacing. "Careful, captain." She drops her hand despite his palm cupped around hers.

Careful. Cairpra told him today that he would have to be careful with her. Very careful. He tips his head to the side and remains silent.

"I just…" She shrugs her shoulders helplessly and tucks a wayward curl behind her ear. "I know you have to explore every option. I get that. And I know this might be the only way. But I don't have to like it."

"You know more than you're telling." It comes out more accusatory than he means, but he can't take it back now.

"I know a lot of things." Her eyes narrow slightly. He's on thin ice, and knows it. "But I didn't lie to you. I've never lied to you. I don't know anything about the protocol."

He can feel the truth in her words, but he can also tell how carefully they've been chosen. She may know nothing about the protocol but she knows something important that he doesn't.

"I don't know how to do this, Maeve," he says, sitting up a little straighter, away from her tempting warmth. "You're so opaque. Every time I try to learn something about you, you shut me down. Why?"

"I didn't realize that was what we were talking about."

"That's exactly what I mean!" He wishes he had someone to hit, someone who deserves it. Frustration slithers up his spine and hovers uncomfortably in his chest, his arms and hands. He's not a talker, he's a man of action. He doesn't _do_ these word games. "You're good with language. You've proved that a thousand times over here in this library, and you can best all my men in verbal sparring despite Arabic not being your native language." He takes a deep breath, then another. Fighting with her will get him nowhere; he already knows that. "Maeve, please. Enough is enough. Can't you ever just give a simple answer to a question?"

She blinks several times, looking more than a little taken aback. Not angry, though; at least not yet. She shifts toward him. Cautious as a cat, she watches him. She's curious, wary. "It's been a very long time since you asked any questions like that, Sinbad." Her low voice holds a world of tension.

Has it? He guesses he just stopped hoping she would ever give him a straight answer. "Come here."

"That's not a question." She doesn't move.

His hands ache to touch her, but he remains still. "How old are you?"

She tips her head to the side. "I answered that one already."

"You gave me a scrap of paper, not an answer. Tell me. How old are you?"

She struggles to keep eye contact; her gaze, usually so direct, flickers. She doesn't want to answer. He can feel the tension in her—not anger at the substance of his question, but the fact that he's caught her so neatly, trapped by her own honesty and admission of trust. He's given her no out, no reasonable excuse not to answer, and she hates it. Her eyes meet his again, sullen. "Nineteen."

His head wants to doubt her. She's too self-assured for nineteen, and the haunted look he's seen more than once in her eyes is something no one so young should ever carry. But she's never lied to him before, and he sees no reason why she would suddenly start.

"Was that so hard?" Even as his head dips, closing the distance between them, he knows somehow that the answer is yes. She wouldn't keep so much locked away otherwise. But when his mouth touches hers she opens for him, kissing him with the raw sweetness he loves from her. She's terrible at hiding her emotions—from him, anyway—and as he kisses her he feels the anger and frustration melt from her as easily as they fall from him.

Cairpra warned him to be careful, and he will. Maeve is too important to him to be otherwise. He kisses her gently, soothing the sting of being forced to give him a straight answer. There's fear in her, which both surprises him and doesn't. While she trusts him implicitly, he suspects she doesn't always trust herself.

"Maeve. I won't hurt you." This isn't her main fear, but it's the only comfort he knows to offer. His mouth touches her forehead, the warm skin of her cheek, before settling against her soft lips again. She denies him much in this frustrating relationship, but she's never denied him this.

"I know that." She does. She told him as much last night. But something or someone has hurt her in the past, scarring her, building walls she may not ever be able to break down. Not on her own.

But she isn't alone anymore. Whatever happened to her before, Sinbad vows, it won't happen again. Dim-Dim found her, gave her safety, and brought her to Sinbad. He fought it at first, this bond they share. He didn't want ties, and this one is bone-deep. Soul-deep, perhaps. Fighting proved useless and he gave up long ago. She's not like other women, pretty creatures who float in and out of his life as he moves from port to port. She's different. She's his, he realizes with a start.

His fingers trail through that glorious red hair, tangling gently, holding her to him as he kisses her. Cairpra told him to be careful. Even as his mouth moves slowly with hers, he knows deep down that others have not. But he's not like them. He may not understand this bond, but he feels it. He respects it. How it will ultimately evolve he doesn't know, but Maeve is part of him now. She has been since their last encounter with Rumina at Skull Mountain, maybe longer.

His tongue traces her perfect, lush lips. She tastes sweetly feminine, and he wants more. More touch, more taste, more truth. Just _more_. She has a body that would make sirens weep with envy and he aches to see it, to touch the beauty he knows she's hiding underneath her skirts. But Cairpra told him to be careful. Warned him explicitly. Maeve is his in a way the faceless girls in every port are not—she's special, and she's permanent. When he sails away, she sails with him. Knowing this, he can't let himself let go, can't allow himself to take her, fuck her, as he desperately wants to. This relationship could so easily turn into love, and right now that's something he can't risk. He has to face the reality that, when All Souls Night comes, he may very well belong to Scratch. Knowing that, he can't risk loving her. He can't risk what it would do to her. Dim-Dim would never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

But he can't make himself let go. He breaks their kiss gently and swallows against the sudden constriction in his throat. "Come here."

This time she does. He settles on his back on the rich, plush rug, exactly where he woke early this morning. She curls into his side willingly, and the way her body fits perfectly into his, it's like he was made just for this, just to hold her. The silk she still wears is rich and fine, but her skin is softer, and devastatingly warm under his hands. He strokes her warm cheek, runs the tips of his fingers lightly down the smooth column of her throat. Her head comes to rest on his shoulder and she wraps her arm around his waist, holding him just as tightly as he grips her. Sweet, tempestuous thing.

"I need you there with me tomorrow," he says quietly. "When we go talk to al-Alawy." His hand reaches down, finding her smooth leg, drawing it to rest over his.

"The silk will wrinkle," she protests, but she doesn't pull away. Neither does she respond to his remark.

"Do you really care?"

"No."

He didn't think so.

"When is Samhain?"

She shifts against him, lifting her head to kiss him once more, her mouth gentle, her touch sweetly soothing.

"Eight moons. You have time, Sinbad. We have time."

He exhales deeply. Eight moons. He can figure this out in eight moons, can't he?

Of course he can. She's right. They have time.

* * *

Maeve is up before him the next morning, her head buried in a pile of texts, her hair spilling like molten copper over her shoulders. She's back in her regular clothes, which means she's been to their quarters in the palace at least briefly. Dermott grumbles to himself from the top of a bookcase as Sinbad stirs and stretches, his hand lightly touching her bare knee before he sits up.

The sorceress makes a face at her hawk, but offers Sinbad a genuine smile. "Good morning."

"Good morning." He feels somewhat gypped, not getting to wake up with her warmth in his arms. "Is it late? How embarrassed should I be?"

"Not at all. Everyone's doors were closed when I went up to my room not long ago. I could hear Doubar still snoring." She touches his cheek lightly, brushing her thumb against the stubble on his jaw. "You haven't been sleeping well since we got to Basra so I didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful."

"Only when I'm with you." He turns his head to kiss her thumb, his lips brushing her warm skin. He wishes she'd woken him, so he could have that moment of early sweetness with her before the rest of the world—including her bird—intruded. Things seem easier when it's just the two of them. Maeve values her privacy highly and he understands that. But he also wonders if that's really the only reason.

Dermott chides him from his perch on a bookcase, puffing his breast feathers with irritation.

"Good morning to you, too."

Sinbad's positive the hawk's clucking response is an expletive.

"You know, I've saved your life enough times, you should really be nicer to me." He climbs to his feet, stretching slowly. "I didn't even let Doubar eat you when we got stuck in the doldrums."

Maeve chuckles and drops her attention back to her work. "He's unimpressed."

Yeah, Sinbad knows. But at least Dermott's mistress isn't angry with him anymore.

* * *

Until, that is, he fetches her from the library at midday, to go meet Sikandar al-Alawy.

She insists she isn't interested in going, and Sinbad almost agrees to leave her behind. Her hostility for the stranger and the protocol are palpable, and Sinbad cannot guarantee her civility. He's never been able to control her unless she chooses to let him. But she knows more than the rest of them, about both magic and the tale of Tam Lin, and he needs her knowledge and her quick mind, needs them more than he fears her unruly behavior.

And so they set out with Cairpra, Maeve unwilling and the rest of the crew impatient, to find al-Alawy and learn what he knows.

They find him at home in rented rooms in a fashionable area near the palace. A silent servant passes around tiny glass cups of steaming, fragrant tea as al-Alawy waves them all to seats on woven mats around a long, low table.

"Sit, sit, my treasured guests!" the man urges, bending with a sweep of an arm to help Cairpra to the floor. He is short, no bigger than Firouz, with nut-brown skin and a thick black moustache. "It is so good to meet friends of the sorceress Cairpra! She says you are known to the great Dim-Dim, as well."

"He's been something of a mentor to most of us." Sinbad shakes the man's offered hand.

"And is this the woman you'll be using?" al-Alawy asks, turning to Maeve. "Such a lovely thing!"

Maeve observes the man stonily, refusing to give him her hand, but to her credit she doesn't slap him either. "Nobody _uses_ me for anything."

Sinbad steps swiftly between them before the situation can deteriorate. "Maeve is a member of my crew, and Dim-Dim's protégé." He touches her arm gently, urging her to sit, keeping himself between her and their host. He can't have her throwing a fit before they even get started.

She desists for the moment, and a wave of relief lifts him as she takes his offered arm, settling next to him at the low table.

"Indeed?" al-Alawy looks intrigued. "Dim-Dim is known as a great teacher, of course, but it was my understanding he had retired to an island of his own making and did not keep students there."

"Only Maeve." Cairpra smiles proudly at the younger woman.

"He was with us when we happened upon a demon. It attacked and sent him…I wish I knew where," Sinbad adds. "Our larger quest is to find him, but something urgent came up a short while ago." He pulls the open front of his shirt to the side, exposing the skull-shaped brand on his chest.

"Fascinating. Truly fascinating." Al-Alawy bends forward to examine it. "I have heard many times of this thing, but never seen one in person." He looks almost giddy with delight. On Sinbad's other side, Maeve snorts softly. He can't help but agree. If the historian likes the damn mark so much, maybe he should have it.

Firouz and Rongar exchange a wary look. Doubar struggles with his tiny, fancy cup, doing his best not to spill the hot tea or break the delicate glass, but the object is nearly lost in his giant hands.

"And so you are here about the Tam Lin Protocol," al-Alawy says, sitting back finally. Sinbad draws the flaps of his shirt back into place. "You are very lucky, captain. I have my information from the fairies themselves."

Maeve's arms rise to cross over her chest in a gesture of pure defensiveness. Her mouth slims to a thin line of something very close to disgust. Sinbad moves his arm under the table, just slightly, and meets the soft warmth of her bare thigh. He touches her lightly, hoping she understands the subtle warning. They need whatever information this man has regardless of his stated source, and so she needs to let him speak.

She jerks at Sinbad's touch and looks sidelong at him, dark eyes once again concealing all emotion, though the rest of her body screams it. She watches him, anything but calm. But she doesn't move away, and doesn't speak.

Unfortunately, Firouz is on the other side of the table, and Sinbad can't hush him surreptitiously.

"I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken," the scientist says. "Fairies are purely mythological figures."

"So is Scratch," Sinbad says quickly, giving his crewmember a quelling glare. "And yet here we are." He turns to their host. "I apologize. Firouz is a man of science, not magic."

"No need to apologize." The man waves Sinbad's words away. "We all have our little areas of expertise. I would be quite lost if you sent me to a man dying of plague, for instance. Thankfully, this is not your case."

"It feels like a plague to me." Sinbad rubs the mark. "It doesn't hurt; that's not what I mean. I just want a way to get rid of it."

"Of course, of course. That is why you have come. Al-Alawy can help you with this."

Hell, Sinbad hopes so. Impatience speeds the beat of his heart, the pulse of blood through his veins. Firouz has thankfully stopped talking. Even Rongar, the best stoic of them all, shifts his weight and rubs his thumb along the handle of a dirk, subtle signs of his internal anxiety. Maeve is a statue beside Sinbad. He can see the tension in her jaw muscle, and despite his lack of magical ability he can feel the seething emotions in her, none of them good. She's angry and mistrustful, and also very, very scared. The fear confuses him, but now isn't the time to call her on it.

Cairpra's keen black eyes flit between them, watching both Sinbad and Maeve closely. He can feel the weight of yesterday's warning and wonders if he's already pushed Maeve too far by insisting she be here. The old sorceress told him to be careful with her. Has he unwittingly done otherwise?

"Like all good histories," al-Alawy says, settling back on his mat and picking up his tiny glass of tea with his thumb and forefinger, "this one begins with a legend. A tale from far to the west." He glances at Maeve with bright interest. Sinbad tightens his hand on her thigh, just slightly. She's tense and unhappy, but she says nothing. "At one time the queen of the fairies had a proclivity for taking human lovers, so the story goes, then sacrificing them to hell. A tithe in return for the unholy magic she wielded."

Sinbad is sure Cairpra can sense Maeve's silent fury. Hell, even Firouz ought to be able to, it's so powerful. He exchanges a solemn glance with Rongar, who definitely can. They're both waiting for the inevitable explosion. Sinbad doesn't remove his hand from her leg, but he doubts she'll heed any further warnings from him.

"Then she took Tam Lin. The story doesn't say whether he was her willing consort or a slave. I suppose it doesn't matter to most storytellers. Either way, he also had a human woman whom he got with child. That's the important part."

Sinbad frowns. He thinks back, trying to remember Maeve's very brief summary of this tale. Had she mentioned that part? His memory is usually excellent, but he can't honestly recall. The muscles in her leg quiver under his palm. He shifts his hand just slightly, his long fingers curling to the inside of her knee. She's softer here than the silk she wore last night, and devastatingly warm. Unbidden, the urge to kiss her just there takes him, sudden and strong. His hand tightens, but he resists. She really will kill him if he attempts any such thing.

Maeve hisses beside him, a response to the story, not his hand. He doesn't understand her anger but, oh, he can feel it. He's never felt such fury from her before. She's so tense under his hand, hard and nearly trembling, poised like a cobra curled to strike.

"The woman's name changes from telling to telling. It isn't important." Al-Alawy waves carelessly, as if her identity means nothing. "She challenges the fairy queen for Tam Lin's soul on Samhain, before he can be sacrificed. What exactly she must do varies with the storyteller. If there ever was a first, true version, I fear it's lost to time. But, pregnant with Tam Lin's child, she wins his freedom from the fairy queen. In some versions the queen then has to take his place and surrender her soul to hell. In others she has no soul to surrender."

Maeve snaps.

Sinbad was waiting for it, knew it was coming. He's actually surprised she remained in control as long as she did—she's improving. She attacks nothing, sets nothing aflame. Even the untouched glass of tea in front of her remains unbroken. But she swears tightly in her native tongue, rises swiftly in one furious, graceful motion, and storms from the historian's house.

Al-Alawy attempts to rise, but Cairpra holds out an arm. "Don't, please," she says, urging him to remain seated. "I apologize. The girl is somewhat volatile."

"Well." The historian settles back to his mat. "Did I say something?"

Sinbad is quite sure he did. Maeve lights easily, but not over nothing. The problem is, he has no idea just what set her off. "I'm sorry," he tells their host. Honestly, he's not. That storm-out was nothing compared to some of Maeve's shows of temper, but he could feel how angry she was. She needs some time to cool down.

Doubar rolls his eyes. "Don't take it personally. She gets mad because the sky's blue." He's abandoned his attempt to drink his tea, which Sinbad thinks is probably wise. "Please, go on."

"Please," Sinbad adds. They already know the story. What they need now is the protocol. But he feels like his gut is sinking into the floor, his quick mind already telling him what al-Alawy is going to say.

The historian strokes his moustache and settles back to his seat. "Well. That's more or less the end of the tale. Whether it ever truly happened or not, probably we'll never know. The fairy I spoke to thought it was unlikely."

"How could it possibly have happened? Fairies aren't real. They're the fireside tale." Firouz scowls. "They're physically impossible. Birds have hollow bones; that's how they achieve flight. Mammals do not."

"I don't know, Firouz. I've seen enough on my voyages to know better than to discount anything," Sinbad says. Besides, Maeve's angry about _something_. Something more than a fireside tale. A dull pounding ache has started at the base of his skull, throbbing through his brain. Bringing Maeve was a bad idea. Bringing Firouz was a bad idea. At least Doubar hasn't done anything to embarrass him. Yet.

"How a magical principle grew from the acorn of a legend I don't know, but such things are surprisingly common. Take the Minotaur, for example—"

Sinbad looks pleadingly at Cairpra. He does not want to take the Minotaur for example. He doesn't want _any_ examples. All he wants are the rules he has to play by, and he's suddenly afraid to hear them. Deep down, he already knows what al-Alawy is going to say.

"Sikandar," Cairpra says gently, before his scholarly tangent really gets going. "Let's keep to the subject at hand, please. Sinbad needs to know the procedures he must follow."

"Oh. Yes." Al-Alawy looks a little disgruntled at the interruption but returns to the subject gracefully. "My theory is that, pleased with their mention in such a popular tale, the fairies gathered together and made a…a magical gift to humanity, if you will. A boon, which we now call the Tam Lin Protocol."

Why anyone would be pleased to be the villain in a fireside tale, Sinbad doesn't know. Neither does he care at this point, and he knows better than to ask. They could be here all night. "If a man's soul be threatened by Scratch, he can ensure his safety by following the path of the tale. A woman big with his child must challenge the devil on his behalf. If she does, Scratch's claim is forfeit. The demon has no redress."

Silence falls.

Part of Sinbad wants to laugh. The situation is both ludicrous and horrifying in its simplicity.

Firouz is the first to speak. "That makes even less sense than fairies." He has a peculiar habit of squinting when he gets worked up; his eyes are mere slits under his curly hair at the moment. "What force could possibly compel such a powerful demon to give up, simply because a woman with child demands it of him? And what if the soul he wants is female? What then?"

Al-Alawy looks genuinely puzzled. "What would Scratch want with a woman's soul?"

Sinbad finds he's glad Maeve already stormed out. She might have hurt the man at hearing that.

Cairpra touches Firouz's shoulder gently. "Magic doesn't follow scientific laws, my friend. Please try to keep an open mind, if you can."

"But it makes no sense," Firouz protests. Beside him, Rongar nods slowly. "I don't want Sinbad to put his trust in something that has no chance of working! Why would a gravid woman's challenge make Scratch rescind his claim?"

"I haven't the foggiest," al-Alawy says with a small shrug. "I only know that it works. The mechanism is beyond the scope of history, and I am an historian." He doesn't seem put out at all by the other man's skepticism. "It may be that fairy magic is somehow stronger than the devil's, in this instance. Or there may be a higher power behind it all."

Firouz still looks skeptical but does not continue to protest. He is a man of science, not religion; he knows better than to tread on matters of faith. That can easily get a man killed.

Sinbad pinches the bridge of his nose, then rubs his eyes slowly. It does nothing for his headache. "So you're telling me I have to get a girl pregnant, then convince her to challenge Scratch for my soul?"

"Before Samhain. Yes." Al-Alawy nods. "And—this is important—she must be known to you. The fairy I spoke to stressed that particularly. You can't just pay some tavern wench to do it. My apologies. I assumed that was why you brought the Celt." He nods toward the door Maeve slammed behind her when she left.

Firouz barks a short, amused laugh. Doubar snorts.

Sinbad glares at Cairpra. She told him to be careful with Maeve—very careful. That Maeve would not like this path. She _knew_. She knew and she didn't say anything, choosing to let a stranger tell Sinbad instead. Now he's angry, too. Frustrated not only at Cairpra, but at this whole fucking mess. Everywhere he turns, it feels like people are withholding vital information. Maeve. Cairpra. Al-Alawy is a stranger so can't really be blamed, but his disinterested, scholarly attitude grates on Sinbad's nerves as well. He's trying to fight for his soul, and this man is treating it like a fascinating academic puzzle. Even Firouz isn't that heartless.

Sinbad drops his head into his hands. He wants to run and slam the door, like Maeve. Wants to board his ship and sail away—anywhere, so long as it's not here. But he can't run far enough or fast enough to escape the brand on his chest, escape the fate waiting for him in eight moons. He laughs hollowly. Last night eight moons sounded like a lifetime. Now he feels his time slipping away like sand through an hourglass, grain by grain, a steady stream. Fear squeezes his heart, as if his ribs have suddenly contracted, caging him in. There has to be another way.

But there isn't. Maeve is still working through Omar's magic texts, but he knows better. There is no other way.

"How well do I have to know her?" he asks finally.

"The better you know her, the better your chances. The bond is what makes the magic." Al-Alawy opens his hands, palm up, in a gesture of helplessness. "This is what the fairy conveyed to me. Any further answers, I'm afraid I cannot give you. I would like to, but I simply don't have them."

Yeah, he was afraid of that. He winds his fingers through his hair and tightens them, the dull pain a welcome distraction from the chaos inside. Al-Alawy has presented him with a possible solution to his problem with Scratch, but can give him no real guarantee that it will work. And the protocol is…not what he expected. He expected—hell, he _wanted_—to be sent on some sort of dangerous quest, to have to challenge Scratch himself.

Not this.

The rules are childishly simple, and yet the task feels nigh insurmountable. To save his soul he must convince a woman, one already known to him, to let him impregnate her. To carry his child and, on Samhain, to challenge the most dangerous demon of them all for the right to his soul.

"You know…many women," Firouz says hesitantly.

Doubar grunts. "But only one well." It's what they're all thinking, and he doesn't begrudge his brother saying it. They're sailors. They move from port to port, never staying put longer than a few days. Sailors conduct business, drink, fuck, and leave—they don't _do_ relationships. They go where the wind takes them; they can't be tied down. This is the life he chose, the life he's always wanted. Yes, he's met many, many women in his lifetime. Slept with more than he can remember. But he can't be said to know them, not really. Sometimes he remembers faces, less often names. Cairpra is too old to conceive, even were he willing to ask her. Talia, the pirate queen, is more rival than friend.

Which leaves Maeve.

He raises his head. Across the table, Cairpra watches him solemnly.

"If this is my only option, I'm screwed."

* * *

Night comes swiftly.

Sinbad sent the rest of his crew back to the palace without him. He wanders the city by himself for a while, unsurprised when he finds himself at the docks, staring at the Nomad. He swings himself aboard and sits near the bow, staring out at the darkness beyond, the vast sea he knows is out there. He can feel it—not just how the tide supports and lifts him, his ship rocking gently under him, but in ways he doesn't understand and can't explain. The sea is part of him, runs through him like the blood in his veins. It was always this way, even before he created himself.

He's a sailor, his twin mistresses the wind and the sea. Nothing frees him more and, paradoxically, nothing grounds him more. He's at home here on his little ship in a way he's never been on land. There's a sense of rightness when the wind catches the Nomad's sails he's never felt anywhere else.

Except the past two nights, alone with Maeve in Omar's library, when she allowed him to pull her close and hold her, keep her there with him.

The thought upsets him. _Maeve_ upsets him. He thought he was done with love after losing Leah, and honestly, he was fine with that. He adores women—their soft bodies, their pretty faces—but told himself, after Leah, that he would never again seek to keep one. They come and go from his life like the other pleasures of port: wine women and song, as Doubar is so fond of saying. They like his smile and his confident swagger, and they happily bring him to their beds despite knowing he won't stay. He's always very clear about this. As he's told them all, he won't be tied down.

But Maeve isn't like that. She's different, and that difference frustrates him. He loves it. He fights it. Caring about people makes him vulnerable, and he can't be that. Not after Leah. They were only children, but the pain of her loss still cuts deep, an old wound that festers, never healing. Losing her was his fault, her death caused by his weakness. He can't go through that again. He won't.

Yes, Maeve is his. He's admitted as much to himself and he won't take it back now. Still he struggles. He cares for her, cares deeply. But he hasn't let himself fall for her. He can't love her. He lost Leah as a child, barely old enough to know what love was, wholly unable to understand it. If he lets himself love Maeve now, as an adult, and then loses her… He can't. He won't.

He rubs the spot over his chest where Scratch's mark sits, invisible under his linen shirt. He wishes he could kill the devil, and Rumina too, for good measure. Stealing a man's soul like this is a dirty, underhanded trick. Neither of them fight fair and he knows that, but he's still furious. They've put him in a position he never thought to be in. He's always been master of his own destiny but now, now he isn't. They've left him just one path to follow, forcing him to make choices he never thought he'd have to make.

He's never admitted it, even to Doubar, but Sinbad is scared of children. Not other men's children, but the idea of his own. The thought of a new little person, a whole other being, depending solely on him…it terrifies him. Loving people makes him vulnerable. Losing Leah taught him that. Now he's forced to consider creating a child, a small, innocent life forever tied to him. It scares the shit out of him. He's lost his parents. His intended. Dim-Dim, too, if hopefully only temporarily. Crewmembers and friends. The list is too long, and his heart squeezes painfully when he thinks about it. How much worse would it be, were he to lose a child of his own blood? He's not sure he could bear it.

And Maeve. Were she to agree to do this for him, which he's not at all sure she would, it would tie them together forever. Indelibly. It's a path fraught with danger, one she might not survive. Can he honestly ask any woman to let him get her with child, then put herself and that child in danger to save his soul? He has no right to ask it of anyone.

Yet, right or wrong, this is the only choice he has. He can go forward with the protocol, or he can let Scratch take his soul.

Rope creaks. Sinbad hears the thud of booted feet landing on the deck. A moment later Maeve is with him.

"Figured you'd be here." She's nervous. He senses her discomfort though she doesn't get too close, crossing her arms over her chest, standing well back from him. "Doubar's worried."

"He'll live." Sinbad glances at her dark form, a shadow among shadows on the unlit deck. "No offense, but I just really want to be alone right now."

"Yeah, I know. You would've come back to the palace otherwise." She shifts, her body moving with the rocking of the ship. It looks instinctual now, though it wasn't when she first arrived with Dim-Dim. Water is not her element. She's a fast learner, but these are things his body never had to learn. It just…knew. "I'm sorry I stormed out."

"Are you really?" He doubts it.

"No. But I am sorry if it made things more difficult for you." She runs her fingers through her hair, pulling the thick curls behind her shoulders. "I couldn't stand his attitude anymore."

"Maeve." He takes a deep breath, trying to gather what little patience he has. He truly doesn't want to make her angry again. "I really did mean it when I said I wanted to be alone."

"I know. But I'm not sure you have time to wallow in self-pity. Believe me, if you did, I'd let you." She extends a hand to him. "Come on. We have to go."

He takes her hand almost automatically, allowing her to help pull him to his feet. She leans against his weight and hauls him up, as strong as any man. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

She releases his hand as soon as he's upright. She's tall; they almost stand eye to eye. She inhales a nervous breath. Her eyes meet his. "I trust you, Sinbad. I want you to know that. What I said the other night? I meant it. And I don't trust that scholar." She pushes her left sleeve up, revealing a bracelet he's positive he's never seen before. She wears long sleeves nearly all the time, and doesn't roll them up when she works as his men do. The bracelet wraps around her delicate wrist and lower arm several times, and even in the darkness he can see a stone set in the middle wrap. He can't tell the materials in the shadows, and he slowly reaches out his hand to touch.

As he does, the rainbow cuff on his own wrist suddenly flares into life. Its colors nearly blind him and he freezes, stepping back a little. The colors on his bracelet pulse brightly, then fade again. "What is that?" he demands, suddenly cautious. His mysterious bracelet has never done that before, and he's been closer to Maeve than this. Has linked their hands, held her in his arms, even kissed her.

"I don't know about your bracelet. Mine is a door. It's okay, I promise; I do this all the time." She holds out her hand. "Al-Alawy might be a scholar, but we're talking about your soul here. We need to go to the source."

The source? "Scratch?" Sinbad hesitates. He wants to kill the demon, but he's not so sure he wants to go to hell to do it.

Maeve snorts. "No. If I had a door to hell I'd have pushed Rumina through it long ago."

Sinbad's forced to chuckle. This is true.

"Trust me, Sinbad. Please."

He's…not sure he's ever heard her say please before. And he does trust her. With his life.

With his soul.

He takes her hand.

"Hold on. This will only take a second." She squeezes his fingers in hers and touches her free hand to the stone in her bracelet.

The world disappears.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"You can open your eyes."

The air against his cheek feels raw, much colder than it was a moment ago. Gone are the familiar smells of his world—fish, brine, tar—replaced with the scents of rich, dark earth and green growing things wet with rain. The change is shocking, but he finds himself enchanted. Even the most fertile riverbank farmland he's ever seen doesn't smell like this.

The world is still dark when he opens his eyes, but golden lights gleam from a large, sprawling building about a hundred yards away. The din of Basra has vanished, replaced only by the soft sigh of a light wind.

"You need help," Maeve says. She releases his hand and takes a step back. "I never expected to have to bring you here. But here we are."

"Where is here, exactly?" Whatever this place is, she doesn't want him here. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"Breakwater. And if you say _anything_ about this place to anyone, I will kill you. I don't care what Dim-Dim would say." The venom in her voice tells him she's deadly serious. All of a sudden she's the angry Celt once more, the fierce, mistrustful stranger he first met on the Isle of Dreams. She stands stiff and rigid, just an arm's length away physically and yet further, he thinks, than she's ever been before.

"Hey." He reaches for her, hating the sudden distance between them, the wary gleam just visible in her dark eyes. She steps back, evading his touch. "I thought you trusted me."

"I do. You wouldn't be here otherwise." She pauses for a moment, lips parted. He thinks she might speak, but after a heartbeat she changes her mind. Shaking her head slightly, she starts toward the lighted building.

Her trust is an odd thing. Sinbad follows just behind her. His night vision has been ruined by the bright lights streaming from the big windows, but he can tell they're crossing a large, grassy meadow ringed by trees. She trusts him, he knows she does. But there are still walls built high inside her, partitioning pieces of her off, secreting things away. This place, whatever it is, is one of those secrets. He can feel her unhappiness as they near the sprawling building—not a palace, but really too large for a house. The adventurer in him is keenly excited despite Maeve's reticence. He can feel magic hovering in the air, like static before a thunderstorm. On his wrist, his bracelet glows dimly. Not much, the colors dull and muted, but it's never glowed steadily like this before.

The building before them must have cost a fortune. The white stucco walls are honeycombed with huge glass windows out of which golden light streams. It's an obscene amount of glass, and he doesn't want to even guess the price. Omar doesn't have glass like this. Neither does the caliph of Baghdad, Sinbad's protector, and they're two of the richest men in the world.

"Whose house is this?"

They step onto a wide, rounded threshold. Maeve glances at him. He can see her lovely face well enough, but he can't guess her mood. "It's not a house." She doesn't knock, but lifts the latch and pushes the arched wooden door inward. The door opens on smooth, silent hinges and a rush of warmth and light spills into the night.

Stepping inside, Sinbad's mouth falls open. "I wonder what Firouz would say about this?"

Maeve flashes him an irritated glance as she shuts the door behind them. "Firouz is never going to see this, so it doesn't matter."

They stand in a tall entryway, a chandelier of crystal prisms hanging above them. Instead of multiple candles, tiny golden globes of magical light glow in the circular frame, casting an even, unflickering radiance. The crystals multiply and throw back the light—he's never seen nighttime so illuminated. The floor is made of shiny cinnamon-colored tiles, the walls perfectly white and smooth. In front of them a gleaming wooden staircase leads upward.

"I've never heard it this quiet here." Maeve shakes her head softly and heads up the stairs. "Come on."

What else can he do? She has the magic. He's effectively trapped here, wherever here is, until she decides to take him home.

They climb two flights of stairs and turn right on the landing. A long corridor of closed doors is illuminated by dim globes anchored to the walls. They brighten as Sinbad and Maeve near. Whatever magic this is, Sinbad wishes he had some on the Nomad. Then he and his crew wouldn't be perpetually blind when they move from the bright Arabian sun to the darkness below deck. Maeve opens the third door on the left.

The room inside is dimly lit and this time the lights do not brighten when they pass. A small child's bed sits empty—Maeve kneels at the box trundle beside it. She lifts a sleeping baby into her arms.

The room is dim, but not too dark for Sinbad to see. Maeve curls her arms around the child with practiced ease, lifting it without disturbing its sleep. He swallows hard, unsure what to think as she rises to her feet again. Her expression is grim, spine rigid, but her arms gentle as she holds the child against her body.

The baby wears a diaper, and at first in the fitful light Sinbad thinks he sees some sort of cape down its back. He's proven wrong when Maeve approaches him. "That fucking idiot historian," she mutters, stonily defensive. "Does this look soulless to you?"

As she nears him, Sinbad sees exactly what she holds and what she means. It's not a human child at all, but a fairy. The cape he thought he saw reveals itself to be wings, shimmering like mica in the dim golden light. They lie softly along the child's spine, translucent and shining, looking more like dragonfly wings than bird or butterfly or anything else he might have imagined.

This…explains a lot. But it also raises a million more questions, as everything Maeve reveals seems to. Who is this child, and what does it mean that Maeve is here, holding her?

For it is a her—despite the child's youth and lack of clothing, that much is perfectly clear. She's an older baby; he's not good at guessing the ages of children. Thick dark brown curls cover her head, her skin the color of coffee splashed with cream. Her earlobes have been pierced, set with little chips of aquamarine.

"Here." Maeve passes the baby to Sinbad. He tries to protest but can't stop her, reluctantly taking the child. He holds her gingerly, afraid he'll wake or drop her. His experience with children this small is extremely limited. "Relax, Sinbad. She won't break." Maeve laughs at him, her mood lightening ever so slightly. "You'll need practice if you're going through with that gods-be-damned protocol."

He supposes he will, but he wasn't planning on it today. "Kids don't like me," he tries to tell her.

"Liar. Everyone likes you. Even Rumina, who wants to kill you. Besides, she's asleep. She doesn't care."

It's true; the child doesn't wake despite being passed from shoulder to shoulder. Sinbad settles her more securely in one arm, using the other to touch her mop of curly hair. Hidden in the glossy spirals he finds the top of her ear, curving backward to a gentle point rather than the rounded top of a human ear.

"Her name's Lily."

She's a cute little thing, he'll give her that. More to the point, he can't hold a sleeping child against his shoulder and assume she has no soul. Not that he would have thought so anyway, but with the reality of a flesh-and-blood fairy drooling on his shoulder he understands Maeve's fury at al-Alawy much better.

"She's cute. She's also drooling on me."

Maeve snickers. "She must be cutting a new tooth. She can't help it."

And Sinbad can't put it off any longer. He has to ask. "Is she yours?" He's known Maeve for well over a year, but he suspects the child is old enough to allow for that.

"She's mine." A male voice sounds from the doorway.

Sinbad turns. A man just a shade darker than his daughter enters the room. He's bare-chested, not hugely muscled like Rongar, but he's taller than Sinbad and just as solid.

"Maeve, baby." He opens his arms and waves her in for a hug. To Sinbad's surprise, she laughs and accepts. Oh, he doesn't like that. In fact, he's shocked by just how much he doesn't like that.

The man squeezes her hard for a long moment before releasing her. Sinbad studies him, even less at ease now than he was before. Maeve lets Sinbad touch her—sometimes—but she's never so easy about it.

"Antoine," the man says, turning to Sinbad with a lazy smile. One side of his mouth turns up more than the other, giving him the look of someone always on the cusp of telling a joke. "Just Ant around here. I'll take that." He lifts his daughter from Sinbad's arms. His accent is thick and lilting, the accent Maeve purposely banished from her lips.

"Where is everyone?" Maeve asks. "I've never heard this place so quiet."

"Out back trying to have an astronomy lesson through the cloudbreaks." Ant laughs lightly through his long, straight nose. "Sort of. Rory and Mia fell asleep, and Ness and Keely are drinking. So."

Maeve laughs, too—the low, sweet chuckle Sinbad selfishly likes to think is just for him. His hands ball into fists without his conscious control. "Did we make too much noise?"

"Nah." Antoine flashes her another lopsided, easy grin. "Lily's been waking about this time the past few days, since her teeth hurt. I just came up to check." As if on cue, the baby in his arms stirs. She scrubs her little face against his shoulder and whimpers, sticking two fingers in her drooling mouth. "What'd I tell you? I've got this down to a science." He kisses his daughter's curly head, then jerks his chin at the door. "Come on down and you can tell me why Sinbad is here."

Sinbad glances at Maeve warily. She didn't introduce him, so how does the fairy know who he is? And why wasn't he concerned to see a strange man standing in his nursery, holding his child?

Maeve gives him nothing—no explanation, no reassurance. She follows Antoine out the door, and Sinbad can do nothing but trail along. He doesn't like this, and he's really starting to get tired of it. He's tired of the way Maeve gives him drips and dregs of information—never enough, and never when he thinks he needs it. He's tired of having to guess, and wonder. At the moment he's also not really a fan of this Antoine, who walks easily down the stairs, his wings folded along his spine like his daughter's. Sinbad can't help it. Maeve is his—or so he thought. Seeing how easily she interacts with this strange man is…unwelcome. Unsettling. He raises a hand and touches the small of her back lightly. Through layers of cloth and leather he can't even feel her body heat.

She turns to look at him, pausing for a moment on the staircase. "What?"

Too much. Too much to put into words right now. Sinbad shakes his head, unable to voice everything he's thinking, everything he's feeling. Maeve says this isn't a house, but it sure looks like one. A rich house, with a friendly man and a beautiful baby—aren't these the things all women want?

Maeve looks at him curiously but says nothing. She turns after a moment and continues after Antoine.

They pass through a comfortable sitting room, into a large, airy kitchen. Just as upstairs, globes mounted to the walls brighten when they enter. Antoine opens a cabinet and pulls out a glass bottle of milk. He shakes it well, pours some into a little mug, and replaces the bottle.

"How do you know who I am?" Sinbad demands.

Antoine shrugs. "Maeve never brings anyone home. She's a wee bit overprotective of us. So it had to be you." He offers the cup to his daughter, awake now. She considers it, but doesn't seem to want to take her fingers from her mouth.

"Protective, not overprotective. There's no such thing." Maeve folds her arms over her chest.

"Well." Antoine seems to know better than to challenge that. "Where have you been keeping yourself? We haven't seen you in weeks. Keely's grumpy as hell."

"She can't be that grumpy if she's into the whiskey."

Ant laughs. "What can I say? It keeps us sane." He grins at Sinbad. "Come, captain. A traditional Eire welcome." He sets the milk down, still balancing the baby on his hip, and opens a cupboard above a counter. Even as tall as he is he can't quite reach the top shelf and his wings unfurl, fluttering to life with a soft buzzing hum, lifting him until he can fetch down a bottle of dark amber liquid. On his feet once more he pulls the stopper, takes a brief swig, and passes it to Sinbad.

Sinbad hesitates, though his interest is piqued. Like all sailors he's heard tales of this near-mythical drink, but he's never found so much as a drop in any southern marketplace.

"It's okay," Maeve says, giving him a small chuckle. "I promise, it won't kill you. The rumors are wildly overblown. Just try not to, you know, taste it going down."

Sinbad shrugs. If she says so. Maybe a drink will soothe his irritation. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and swallows.

Fire erupts in his throat and stomach.

He tries to inhale and ends up coughing instead. His eyes smart and water, and he feels like he's breathing fire as he tries to drag in a breath. Dear fucking gods, that burns. He coughs, manages to take a breath, and coughs again. Through burning eyes he glares reproachfully at Maeve.

"See? There you go. Not so bad."

He blinks his watering eyes, trying to focus on her. He's embarrassed, but to his surprise she's not laughing. She watches him calmly as he catches his breath.

"There's no real way to warn you," she says with an apologetic half-smile. "You get used to it, I promise."

He corks the bottle and sets it on a high table in the middle of the room. No more. No way is he getting used to that. "Why the fuck would anyone—" Sudden warmth blooms through him as the fire in his belly wanes. It flows like sunshine through his veins, loosening everything, easing his tight muscles and the maddening ache at the base of his skull. He's on the verge of melting into a happy puddle.

"That's why." She snickers.

Ant claps him on the back. "There you go. Now you're one of us." He grins. "You can take some back home with you."

Maeve makes a face. "Just keep Doubar out of it." She turns to Antoine, once more offering milk to the baby in his arms. "I wanted to talk to you before Keely."

"Oh?" Antoine's head lifts. "That means she's not going to like this." He grins. "What's up? You going to marry that sailor?"

"_No._" Maeve sounds disgusted. Despite the warmth in his belly Sinbad feels a little insulted. "But he's in trouble and Keely can be…prickly."

"Keely can be prickly. That's rich, coming from you." Antoine laughs with delight. "No, I'm sorry, truly." He clears his throat and attempts to look calm. "I know you wouldn't have brought him here if it wasn't important."

"No, I wouldn't." Maeve takes a deep breath. She looks at Sinbad and nods. "Show him."

Sinbad is thoroughly tired of showing the mark on his chest, but he pulls the left flap of his shirt aside anyway. Whoever this man is to Maeve, he's also a fairy. Maeve doesn't trust al-Alawy, so she brought Sinbad to the source, just as she said. The historian claimed to have his information from a fairy. Maeve has made it possible for Sinbad to truly be sure.

Antoine sobers when he sees the skull-shaped brand on Sinbad's chest. His lopsided grin fades and his face turns grim. "That is a mark of ownership, which is vile." He shifts his fussing daughter in his arms, holding her tighter. "Scratch will have a lot to answer for whenever his day of reckoning comes, but brands like that are at the top of the list. No one ought to be able to own a soul. Least of all him."

Sinbad isn't sure what to say, what to think. He wants to dislike this man for being so close to Maeve—for touching her so easily, and calling her _baby_. She'd bite Sinbad's head off for that. But he's obviously a loving father, regardless of who that child's mother is, and he seems to understand Sinbad's plight in a way al-Alawy did not. The historian understood the facts. Ant just…gets it.

"This annoying scholar in Basra told us the only way to stop Scratch is the Tam Lin Protocol." Maeve's body is tense, her words clipped. "Is it?"

Ant releases a slow breath. "You really should ask Keely."

"Keely will hit the roof when she hears. You know that. So I'm asking you first."

Antoine glances at Sinbad, then back at Maeve. "Has he asked you to do it?"

"No." Maeve wasn't with them when al-Alawy explained the protocol, but she knows. Sinbad can tell from every tense muscle, every rigid line in her body. She knows. And she knows she's his best option. "Is there any other way?"

The fairy shakes his head slowly. "Not that I know of. We can contact the other Breakwaters, see what they say. But I wouldn't hold your breath."

Maeve tips her head to the side, watching as the man bounces his fussing daughter gently in his arms. "Will it work?"

"Oh, aye." Ant does not sound happy. "That's powerful, ancient magic, baby girl. Far older than Scratch. It's holy. Elemental. I don't know what to call it. It just _is_." He strokes his daughter's cheek. She removes her fingers from her mouth and bites his instead. "But you know what Keely will say. And Dermott."

"Yeah, I know."

Sinbad doesn't know who this Keely is or what she'll say. But his instincts tell him to trust Antoine's answer. The man talks with firm conviction, which settles him more than all the facts al-Alawy could ever recite. The protocol will work, assuming he follows its rules precisely. And it's his only choice. If he wants to keep his soul, this is the path he must walk.

Antoine rubs his finger on his daughter's gums. She fusses louder, not interested in milk. Maeve lifts the whiskey bottle in offer.

"Yeah, give it here."

"You're giving whiskey to the baby?" That damn fire-water burns like a motherfucker. Sinbad wouldn't ever consider putting it in a child's mouth.

"How do you think we get used to it?" Maeve uncorks the bottle and takes a drink, swallowing without any of the fuss Sinbad made. She gives the bottle to Antoine.

"Like mother's milk." Ant dribbles some of the amber liquid on his finger and puts it back in the baby's mouth. Her little face wrinkles as if he's given her a lemon to suck and she whines her protest, but a moment after he rubs her gums she settles. Tiny wings bat her father's shoulder before subsiding. She licks her little rosebud lips, yawns, and rests her cheek against Ant's bare shoulder.

Sinbad is convinced she drooled out most of what Ant gave her, but it doesn't matter. She quiets, and Ant nods his head at Sinbad. "Come on outside and we'll introduce you. We won't want to be wherever Maeve is when Keely finds out what you're doing."

"There's nothing doing!" Maeve protests. "He hasn't asked, and I haven't offered. All I wanted to know was if the protocol would work."

"You wouldn't be here if you had any other choice, and you know it." Antoine strokes his daughter's back with a slow, gentle hand. She's a sturdy baby and well-grown, but his big palm nearly swallows her. "Your best chance would be to return for the _teas_."

"No," Maeve snaps as a woman enters through a side door.

"Brother, we ran dry." The stranger glances at Sinbad curiously. "What's this about the _teas?_"

"Nothing." Maeve glares at Antoine.

"Will you be joining us for it?" The woman holds out her hand. Antoine passes her the open bottle. Even without her words, Sinbad would have known in an instant that this is Antoine's sister. Her niece looks just like her. Maeve's beauty is regal—Antoine's sister is a goddess, and knows it. Her chin lifts as she looks Sinbad over.

"No, we won't." Maeve accepts the woman's embrace and a kiss, but she's still stiff.

"Sinbad, my sister, Nessa. Nessa, it's Maeve's captain."

"I gathered." Antoine's sister swigs from the whiskey bottle as easily as Maeve, incongruous with her imposingly lovely demeanor. "I keep telling you to join the _teas_ sometime," she says to Maeve. "You'll like it, I promise." A sly grin full of mischief crosses her full mouth. "This one looks like he could be fun." She nods at Sinbad.

"No," Maeve says, more forceful this time.

Nessa shrugs lightly. "Your loss." She gives Sinbad one final glance before drifting back outside, bottle in hand.

Lily is asleep on her father's shoulder. He shifts her body in his arms, watching Maeve cautiously. "It would be the easiest solution, baby girl. If you're going to do this anyway, and we all know you are."

"I don't know that." Maeve frowns. "Why does everyone suddenly think they know better than me what I will and won't do?"

"Because you have a bad habit of not admitting what's in front of your face." Another woman enters—Sinbad's beginning to wonder how many people live in this place. "What the hell's going on? Where's my girl?"

This is Keely. Sinbad doesn't have to be told. She's just a sprite, small and lithe, nothing like Maeve or Nessa. Her dark hair lies straight and silky down her back, save for one fat chunk of brilliant green falling into her eyes, like a pony's forelock. She tosses it aside with a practiced jerk of her head, revealing the rounded top of a pale human ear. She pounces on Maeve, hugging her tightly. "I missed you, you dope! It's been weeks! Where have you been?"

Antoine clears his throat and motions to the door. Sinbad can take a hint. He follows.

They exit onto a wide stone veranda that spans the back of the house. Tiny fairy lights twinkle on the wooden railing. Nearby another man sits with two young boys, patiently pointing out constellations visible through patches in the cloud cover. Sinbad can see Nessa's tall, shadowed form, and yet another woman with a baby in her arms. He breathes deeply. He can smell the ocean, and even hear it, though he can't see it in the darkness. They must be near the shore. The thought steadies and centers him. He might not know where he is, but knowing he's near the ocean grounds him.

Antoine rests his back against the wooden railing and exhales deeply. "You don't want to be in there for this fight. Trust me. You know how Maeve can get—now imagine two of them."

"They're not sisters," Sinbad says cautiously, unsure of himself. They look nothing alike, but everyone is acting as if the two are touchy siblings.

"Not by blood, no." Ant shakes his head. "By circumstance, perhaps. They've been through hell together. I'm sure you know what that does."

Sinbad knows. It creates an unbreakable bond, one that can't be denied or expunged. Whether they like it or not, the girls will be connected until death. "What happened?"

Ant looks at him. His dark eyes aren't judging. Sinbad wants not to like him. This man knows Maeve intimately in ways Sinbad does not, and he resents it. But he's having a hard time not respecting the man anyway.

"A lot," Ant says finally. "No one deserves what your Celt's been through."

"She doesn't talk about it."

"No. Not Maeve." Ant shifts and his wings flicker as a spatter of raindrops spills from the sky. "People break in different ways. Keely talks. Maeve doesn't."

That makes sense—a lot of sense, actually. Sinbad's felt it himself. He and Doubar both lost their parents, but the scars are different. Doubar remembers. Sinbad does not.

And now Sinbad has to ask. He's waited, but he needs a straight answer. "Which one is yours?"

Antoine laughs. It's a delighted, merry sound that reminds Sinbad strongly of his own brother. "Oh, captain. I remember being in your position. Well, not exactly. Not the…" He taps his chest, where Sinbad bears Scratch's mark. "But the rest of it. Wanting something I didn't know I already had." His lazy, crooked grin splits his face wide. On his shoulder, his daughter whines softly in her sleep. "They're both mine, in different ways. Keel's the mother of my children, if that's what you're asking. Maeve wasn't grown yet when I met them, though you wouldn't have known it. She's always been tall." He rubs the back of his head. "With Dermott somewhat out of commission I had to step up. I should probably be giving you the big brother lecture right now, but Maeve would kill me."

Sinbad's mind whirls with the barrage of information he's been given. He's always been quick-witted, and though Antoine hasn't really explained anything, some of the little pieces fit into place, answering questions he's long wondered about his sorceress. "Dermott's her brother." It makes…an insane amount of sense when he thinks about it. The hawk seems to like him most of the time, but not when he puts his hands on her. And their relationship—raptors don't bond with humans as dogs or horses do, not even trained hunting birds. It all adds up.

Ant scratches his nose. "I didn't tell you that."

Sinbad smiles for what he suspects is the first time since Maeve brought him here. "Noted."

Suddenly from inside, the sound of raised voices meets Sinbad's ears. The screaming has started. He winces a little. They're yelling in their native language which he doesn't understand, but he knows he's the cause, and he hates it. He doesn't mean to cause strife for Maeve—that's the last thing he wants.

"Come on." Ant nods him toward the group at the other end of the veranda. "The whiskey's this way."

Yeah, that might be a good idea. Sinbad doesn't know if another hit of that warm sunshine in his veins will ease his guilt, but he's happy to try.

Nessa nods at him when they join the others. She passes her brother the bottle. "My friend Wren, her _céile_, Niall, and their boys." She pauses. "Well, some of them."

The human woman next to Nessa makes a face. "You act like I have an army of them."

"You have five. That's a lot."

Wren shrugs. "We got started early."

The man offers Sinbad his hand. He has smooth black hair that hangs near his shoulders; his features and complexion tell Sinbad his blood likely comes originally from Rome. He and the two small boys near him are all human.

"_Céile?_" Sinbad tries to mimic the word.

"We don't marry," Antoine says. "Marriage is a contract of ownership, and no one can own a Celt. Or a _sìthiche._"

"Lover, I guess you would say," the other man adds. His face crinkles as he considers. "There's no real direct translation. You don't have a word in your language for a commitment that isn't based in ownership."

Sinbad wants to protest, but he can't. They're right. He thinks—he _hopes_—most men in his world don't see marriage as merely a transfer of ownership, but he honestly doesn't know. He's never asked, never even thought to ask. Marriage isn't something he's ever really thought about, except when forced by Rumina.

"_Sìthiche_?"

"Us." Ant gestures between himself and his sister. "You'd say fairy. There are very few of us left."

"There must be. I've seen most of the known world, and been off the edges of the map. But I've never seen anything like you," Sinbad says honestly. He hopes he's not offending them. Antoine seems perfectly nice, and his sister and daughter are both beautiful, though Sinbad's partial to redheads these days.

"You wouldn't unless you knew where to look. Too much of our blood has been shed in the past few hundred years. We don't make ourselves easy to find."

"Was Maeve right when she said there's no such thing as being overprotective?"

Antoine chuckles. "Our Maeve takes things to extremes. I don't have to tell you that." He swigs from the whiskey bottle and hands it to Sinbad. "Go on. This is how we keep warm up here in the north."

Sinbad drinks. Prepared for the liquid fire, he doesn't choke this time. He can't help coughing a little as he passes the bottle to Niall, but he swallows the burn quickly. And, oh, that liquid warmth is just as sweet as it was the first time, warming his blood, bringing soft tingles to his skin as he feels it flood his body.

"Atta boy." Ant claps his shoulder again.

"I want some," the smaller boy says. He's bare-chested, a skinny little pale thing with shaggy brown hair, maybe five or six years old. He pulls at his father's hand.

"Just a wee drop," Niall says. "It's near bedtime."

"Can't sleep with all that yelling." The boy tips the bottle in his father's hand, making a face as he downs a mouthful. His older brother wrinkles his nose and shakes his head when offered.

"They're in rare form tonight, I'll give you that." Wren sounds amused. She's small, like Keely, her tawny hair cropped short like a man's. The baby sleeping in her arms is younger than Lily.

"It's my fault. I'm sorry." Sinbad didn't ask to be brought here, but he feels compelled to apologize nonetheless. Scratch's claim on his soul is his problem, not Maeve's, and not these strangers'.

"Who are you, anyway?" the younger boy asks, full of the suspicion of a young child.

"Be nice, Dex," Ant rebukes gently. "This is Captain Sinbad. Maeve brought him."

Both boys' dark eyes widen. "Really?" the younger, louder, one squeals. "Are you really the really _real_ Captain Sinbad?"

Sinbad has to chuckle. He's much more comfortable with these older boys than when Maeve plunked a baby in his arms. "I am. You've heard of me?"

They nod. "Maeve tells stories about your adventures all the time," the older boy says. He's a little replica of his father, down to his soft, gentle voice.

"Is everyone else here, too?" the younger boy demands. "Doubar? Rongar?"

"No," Sinbad's forced to tell him. The small face falls. "Maeve tells you adventure stories, huh?"

They nod in tandem. "When she comes home," the older boy says.

This is the second time someone has called this place Maeve's home. Sinbad doesn't like it. The Nomad is her home. She belongs there, with him.

"Doubar is my favorite," the smaller boy says. "He always saves the day!"

Yes, he often seems to. Sinbad isn't really surprised that Maeve tells it that way. She loves the big bear of a man like an older brother.

One of multiple older brothers, it seems. Dermott is her true brother, and Antoine stepped in at some point, too—likely when Dermott was transformed into a hawk. Sinbad doesn't know the details, but he knows Rumina is wrapped up in this mess somewhere. For a woman so stubbornly independent, Maeve certainly seems to attract men who want to take care of her. It's amusing…as long as those men are content being her brothers.

"Come on, you wee beasties," Niall says, handing the bottle back to Antoine. "It's time to go upstairs. Say goodnight."

The boys put up a token protest, but the younger is already yawning after a shot of whiskey. They allow themselves to be herded into the house by their parents, leaving Sinbad with Ant and Nessa. The sounds of the raging argument in the house have faded, but Sinbad suspects the girls have merely moved into another room, not actually calmed.

"I'm sorry," he says again. It feels like all he's done for the past few days is apologize. "I didn't ask Maeve to bring me here. I didn't ask her to help me with the protocol. I just wanted some answers."

Antoine waves away his apology. "You only know Maeve alone, so you don't understand. They're best friends, but they're…volatile. And they're protective as hell of each other, which doesn't help. Keely doesn't know you, but you're going to ask Maeve to help you defeat Scratch. That means using the Tam Lin Protocol, which is an insult to us _sìthichean_." He grunts. "Queen of the fairies, my ass. Is there a queen of all humans?"

"But Keely's human," Sinbad says hesitantly. "Or, at least, she looks it. Why would that bother her more than you?"

"She's touchy and protective, like Maeve." Ant touches his daughter's messy curls again. "And she has two _sìthiche_ children."

"I see Lily has wings," Sinbad says, declining when Nessa offers him the bottle again. "But isn't she technically half human?"

"Technically, aye." Thankfully Ant doesn't seem offended by the question. Sinbad really is curious. "But _sìthiche_ blood tends to win out until it's greatly watered down. Your Maeve has enough in her that I can sense it, for instance, but it's likely far, far back in her bloodline. My daughters' children will be winged no matter who their fathers are. The generation after, as well."

And his children's human mother is protective enough of her fairy lover and babies that she may take insult where easygoing Antoine does not. Sinbad understands. Maeve would be the same—Maeve _is_ the same. She keeps this place and these people secret, but so far the only things Sinbad sees that warrant her caution are the winged members of her family.

Nessa hands the whiskey to her brother. "You're in need of the Tam Lin Protocol? Is that why you were talking about the _teas_? Because if you want to knock Maeve up, that's how to do it."

Ant makes a face. "That's the other part Keely won't like."

"Keely can stuff it."

"Behave," Ant chides his sister, who ignores him.

"What? She has two kids of her own, and I know as well as you do that Mia was a complete accident, and not a welcome one at the time." Nessa folds her arms over her chest, looking very much like Maeve for a moment. "If they're really going to try the protocol, at least Sinbad and Maeve know what they're getting into."

Antoine has the grace to look a little sheepish. "We were kids."

"Maeve is as old now as Dermott was when Rumina cursed him. You all need to stop treating her like a child, or one day she may choose not to come back."

Sinbad feels very uncomfortable witnessing the siblings squabble, out of place and out of his depth. He doesn't know the history here, doesn't know how these people met or came to be a family. All he knows is that they care deeply for Maeve. He does, too, and that unites them despite their differences.

Antoine looks slightly sick. He cups Lily's sleeping head in his hand, stroking her soft curls with his thumb. "Maeve can do as she pleases. I've never tried to stop her. When she went south to hunt Rumina I wanted to, but I knew better. I didn't even try to stop Keely from going with her. Maeve did that. And I won't stop her now, even though I know Dermott won't be happy with her choice. But I also won't stop Keely from expressing herself. Their history goes back further. It's not my place."

"Well, whose place is it?"

"Dermott's, maybe. Or no one's."

Nessa swears. "I'm telling you, you're all worrying about the wrong things. Maeve can make her own decisions. She'll make them regardless of what you think, and you already know that. So what's the point of all that noise?" She points in the direction of the house.

"They're Celt." He shrugs helplessly.

"I give up. The devil take you all." Nessa's wings flicker at her back as she storms toward the sound of the waves.

Antoine sighs heavily. "I think everyone's a little worked up tonight." He gives Sinbad a half smile. "Come on. You can take refuge in the library until the girls are done."

"When will that be?" Sinbad asks cautiously. Doubar will be worried. They need to get back to the Nomad.

"Who knows?" Ant sounds as weary as Sinbad feels. "When their voices give out. When they get tired. I don't think this is the kind of argument either of them can win."

Sinbad is thoroughly tired of libraries, but he follows Ant back inside and up the stairs anyway.

The third flight of stairs opens onto the library. Sinbad's eyes open wide. He thought Omar's library was big, but this is enormous. The sprawling library takes up the entire floor of the house. Bookshelves line the walls and jut out at right angles from them, filling the room except for a small space near the landing where several long tables sit lined with chairs.

Sinbad lifts his nose and inhales. For the first time in this house, he smells smoke.

"That's from…an old fire." Antoine shifts the child on his shoulder. "This floor and the next are the library. You can look, but be careful. These books have been through a lot. I have to go put Lily down."

"Thank you," Sinbad says as the man retreats back down the stairs. He stares at the shelves and shelves around him. Books are precious objects, taking ridiculous amounts of time and skill to produce—there's more than a sultan's ransom of worth here. And yet…

He crosses to a shelf and, mindful of Antoine's warning, carefully eases a book from its slot. The smell of old smoke grows stronger as he moves the priceless object in his hands. The leather binding is cracked and melted in places, scarred by heat and dark with smoke. The edges of the parchment pages are singed.

One by one, Sinbad inspects a number of books. The bindings and pages all tell the same story of fire and destruction. Some are burned nearly beyond hope, paper and vellum crumbling to ash at the slightest touch. Others have fared better, but all bear some sort of scar. He climbs to the next floor of the house, mind reeling at the immensity of this treasure-trove, and the destruction it suffered at some point.

There are fewer books on this floor and more tables, and now Sinbad sees what this place truly is. Maeve said it was not a house, and she's partially correct. Her people live here, but they also do vital work as well. New, blank sheets of parchment and vellum are stacked high on tables here, along with innumerable quills, the ingredients for mixing ink and paints. Three badly damaged books lie open, one with no binding left at all, just burned pages, the script nearly illegible. Next to them sit fresh copies, laboriously written out, letter by letter, page by page, tedious, exacting works in progress.

Scribes. These people are scribes, or librarians, or scholars or…something. Something bad happened at some point, a conflagration sweeping through a library. How, where, and when, Sinbad doesn't know. But these are the remnants, Maeve's people slowly picking through the ashes, putting the pieces back together. He breathes softly as he stares at the raw materials of knowledge around him. The loss of the original library must have been crushing. He can't imagine the cost, not only in money but in knowledge—heritage. The cultural lifeblood of an entire people could have gone up in flames. He knows the tale of the Great Library at Alexandria and how it burned, how scholars still mourn its loss hundreds and hundreds of years later.

These books tell stories. Sinbad wanders slowly back to where Antoine left him. They tell stories through the written word, yes, but also the scars they bear, the scent of old smoke heavy in the air. This is a holy place, holy as a graveyard. He can feel it, and now he understands Maeve's unwavering protectiveness for this place and the people in it. She's protecting her winged family members, yes, but also the treasure housed here, damaged but not broken, like Maeve herself. All these books and scrolls are a tempting target for raiders, for invaders, bounty hunters, anyone looking for a quick profit. He looks at the rainbow cuff on his wrist, still glowing dully. He suspects it's responding to whatever protective spells are on this place, magic put in place to keep whatever happened before from happening again.

Maeve and Keely are too far away for him to hear their argument, separated by several stories of wood and plaster. He wishes he could go to her. There's pain here, in these books, sorrow that he didn't feel downstairs. He still doesn't know where he is, still doesn't know what's happened to Maeve in her life to make her the way she is. But right now, in this moment, he doesn't care. All he wants to do is hold her close, to feel her breathe and tell her that finally, finally he gets it.

* * *

"Sinbad." A gentle hand touches his head, stroking his silky hair. Maeve.

He lifts his head from his arms, watching as she settles in the chair next to his. She's weary, whatever anger she held before now spent.

"You have a thing about sleeping in libraries."

"Only with you." He touches her carefully, sliding his hand under hers, pressing her warm palm. She's worn out, emotionally and physically. He pushes her sleeve up, revealing the bracelet on her arm. He can't place the metal—its shine isn't quite right for silver, nor pewter or iron either. The stone in the middle is milky white. "Who won the fight?"

She rubs her eye with her free hand. "It wasn't that sort of argument."

"Is your friend mad that I'm here?"

"No." Maeve pulls her hand from his. He wants to take it back, wants to pull her into his arms and hold her against him, but he knows better. She wraps her arms around herself, hugging tight. "But she's mad that I'm considering the protocol."

"Are you?" He swallows hard, anxiety wrapping icy tendrils around his heart and squeezing tight. She runs hot and cold with him, fire and ice, and he can never be sure of her. She knows he needs her—that she's his best chance at beating Scratch, maybe his only chance. There are other women he could ask, namely Talia, but he doesn't know any of them as well. Doesn't care for any of them nearly so much. Al-Alawy stressed that the bond between him and the woman creates the magic, and Antoine seemed to reiterate that point. He's bonded to no one more than Maeve.

But will she do it? He's afraid to ask her to, afraid she'll say no. Afraid she'll say yes.

She shakes her head infinitesimally, arms tightening around herself. He wishes they were his. "I don't want to. Please understand that. But I don't know that I could live with myself if I was able to save you and I didn't."

"Come here." He hates seeing her like this, watching her hurt, and he can't stand it anymore. He shifts her chair and slips his arms around her warmth, pulling her close. She's not relaxed, but she's too tired to really be rigid in his arms. "I can't make you. I won't. It's a huge burden to place on you. I wouldn't begrudge a refusal." He remembers walking in Basra with Doubar, his brother asking if he thought Maeve would challenge Scratch for his soul. That part, he has no doubt of. If it were only a matter of fighting the demon, Sinbad knows she would. She'd love the chance. But he's not asking her to draw her sword in defense of him. He's asking her to fuck him, to let him breed her, get her with child. She likes the warmth of his arms around her, but that doesn't mean she's willing to bear him a child.

"I know you wouldn't. That's why I'm not saying no." Slowly, so slowly, her arms uncurl. She lets go of herself and hugs him instead, her arms slipping around his shoulders, fingers burying themselves in the hair at the nape of his neck. She turns her head and breathes him in, and he can feel some of the tension in her body dissipate, melting out of her. "But…it's a lot, Sinbad. You don't know what you're asking."

"Yes, I do." He pulls her tighter against him. His clothed body knows hers by now, knows the shape of her, the softness of her skin, the warmth of her mouth as it brushes his throat. "I'm asking for the rest of your life." That's not part of the protocol, but it needs to be said. At the end of this, if all goes well, she'll have a baby to care for. He never particularly thought about having children before this mess, and it isn't something he would willingly choose. But he won't abandon a child of his blood or the woman who bore it. That's not who he is.

"That's not what I mean." Her hands shift to his chest and she pushes back from him. He doesn't like it, but he knows better than to stop her. "You don't understand."

"I understand a lot." He's not a man of words, but fuck, he wishes he had the skill to explain to her what he felt from these books, what they tell him about her life, who she is. "I don't know your life story. I don't know what this place is, exactly, or how you became tied to it. But I understand _you_."

She frowns, and he can feel her bitter skepticism as she pulls further away. He's not expressing himself well. But he doesn't know how else to explain what he feels.

"I know your bravery. Your unwavering loyalty. I know your favorite foods, and the way the tips of your ears turn pink when you're embarrassed."

Her eyes drop as she fights a smile and yes, the tops of her gently curved human ears flush warm and pink.

"I'm curious about what's happened to you—why you are the way you are. I want to know everything. But I don't need to. Not to understand."

She lifts her chin slowly. Sinbad watches until the last moment, when her mouth brushes gently against his. He kisses her back, heart hammering in his chest, like a caged bird desperate to be free. She's everything, this girl, and he wants everything for her. Wants to fix whatever in her needs fixing, to bring her joy, to see the tender smile he still insists is only for him. Most of all he wants desperately not to hurt her, and yet he's terrified that asking her to do this for him, to bear him a child and challenge Scratch for his soul, will hurt her deeply.

"Why doesn't Keely want you to do this?" He kisses her jaw lightly. He's not sure how he feels about Maeve's friend, but he doesn't need to like her. He just needs to make sure they're not working against each other—that could tear Maeve apart.

"Because she doesn't know you. Because it's dangerous. Because women die having babies." Maeve's shoulders shrug and she tucks a loose curl behind her ear. "Take your pick."

"She thinks I'll hurt you."

Maeve nods.

"Because I'm a sailor? Because I'm a southerner?"

"Because I'm me, and trouble seems to follow wherever I go. It's nothing to do with you, particularly. Though being a sailor doesn't help, I'll admit."

Yeah, sailors don't have good reputations when it comes to women. From that standpoint Sinbad can understand anyone's reticence. "Do _you_ think I'll hurt you?"

Dark velvet eyes glance up at him, then back down. "Not on purpose."

And what, really, can he say to that? Her fears echo his own. He desperately doesn't want to hurt her and he's afraid he's going to, no matter what he chooses. "I'll marry you," he says softly. It's something he won't offer to anyone else. If Maeve refuses to help him he'll ask Talia, but he won't offer marriage. This is something he'll give Maeve. No one else.

Dark fire flashes in her eyes. "Celts don't marry."

"I know that." Antoine made that clear earlier in the evening. "But I will, if it would make you feel better."

"Why would offering to _own_ me make me feel any better?" she snaps, pushing at him until he loosens his grip.

"Not own you. Take care of you. Provide for you." This isn't coming out the way he wants, and frustration swells in him again—not at her, really, but at himself. At this whole fucking situation.

"I can provide for myself!" She's angry now. "You men. You don't get it, do you?" She shakes him off and rises, pacing the narrow walkway behind the table. "I'm not a pet, not your property. If I bear you a child, he won't be, either."

"I don't understand." He watches her warily, thoroughly tired of this. She's brought him here, to this place that obviously means a great deal to her. He thought he understood, but he's just as lost as he was before. "What is it that you want?"

"To be _wanted!_" She reaches the window and turns, pacing back the other way. He can see the frustration in every line of her tired body, though she refuses to meet his eyes. "Look, I know you don't get it. I understand that. But all my life, I swore I'd never have children. I was an unwanted child, and I vowed I'd never put anyone else through what I went through." She shakes her head, jaw tight, and swallows hard. For the first time Sinbad can remember, he sees tears bright in her eyes. He's horrified. Maeve doesn't cry. Even when she thought Dermott had been killed, she didn't cry.

And she doesn't now, blinking the tears back, ruthlessly clamping down on the outward sign of emotion. "Now you're asking me to do exactly that—to bear you a child you don't even want." Her voice falters but she clears her throat and pushes on, dark eyes guarded once more. "You can't change how you feel or what you want. I know that, and I don't expect you to. But don't you _dare_ offer me a charade. I expected better from you."

"Maeve…" He reaches for her, unsure what to say. She's right, and yet so, so wrong at the same time.

"No." She holds up a warning hand. "Don't touch me. I need time to think. Besides, Doubar will be wondering where you are."

It's a dismissal, but he's frantic. He doesn't want to be dismissed. Not now, not when she's hurting like this.

But she has the power. She shoves up her sleeve, exposing the bracelet. The milky stone turns red with her magic and she holds it toward him.

"Touch it. I'll be back by morning, but I need to be alone right now."

He wants to protest, to refuse. He's her captain, she can't order him around like some cabin boy.

But she can. She is. He needs her, and holding on too tight now is not the way to keep her.

"By morning," he can't help saying.

She nods silently. They're not on leave and she's not a shirker—she'll be back at her post by morning no matter how she feels about him.

He doesn't want to. He desperately doesn't want to. But Sinbad touches the stone, and the world disappears once more.

* * *

A/N: Yes, I know no one likes OCs. If it makes you feel any better, none of them are really original. Keely's basically Jamie's sister from the Outlander books, for instance, with some Lucy Diamond from DEBS thrown in for fun. And I know Dermott's supposed to be Maeve's little brother but he's always been older in my headcanon.


	5. Chapter 5

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad is relieved to return to Basra in one piece. Traveling by magic may be quick, but it makes him nervous. He much prefers to sail. He breathes a little easier as the arid warmth of an Arabian night surrounds him once more, the familiar sounds and smells of the crowded city comforting to his senses. He knows the dirty, dense cities of the south, like Basra and Baghdad, knows them in ways he doesn't know the rest of the world despite his travels, and the closely-packed night markets and busy marinas will always bring him comfort in a way no other place in the world can.

He wants to stay aboard the Nomad tonight—not sleep, he's too full of disquiet for that—but he doesn't want to worry Doubar any further, so he sets out somewhat unwillingly for the palace.

Basra's night markets remain open despite the late hour. The night is warm, the streets well-lit with lamps and torches, turning the white-walled city richly gold. Normally Sinbad loves this time of day, when children are in their beds and nighttime revelry abounds. He passes through the bustling marketplace, full of music from traveling minstrels, the scents of cooking food and hot spiced wine from stalls offering local delicacies. This is what he travels for—to experience the richness of life in different lands and then to come home to his preferred creature comforts, only to leave again when the wind takes him.

But not today. Today the scents of spices and wine hold no savor, and the scantily dressed girls luring travelers into taverns don't even register. A large part of himself remains far away, on a dark island in the stormy north.

He told Maeve the truth—he won't begrudge her if she says no. She has every right to need some time to think. If the tables were turned—not that they really could be—he'd want time to weigh his options as well.

His heart hurts for the choice she's being forced to make, the position he's put her in. Antoine said nothing about her being unwanted by her parents. The _sìthiche _said nothing about her parents at all, only Dermott, her older brother. In Sinbad's world sons are considered blessings, but not daughters. He wonders if the same is true among Maeve's people, if that's what she meant when she said she was unwanted. Antoine dotes on his Lily, that much is more than clear, so he's unsure. He aches for her regardless. She said she swore she'd never have children of her own, never put anyone else through what she went through. It makes sense, especially considering the chaos he senses in her past. He may not know exactly what's happened to her but he knows she didn't have a normal childhood. She's too scarred for that. Wanting to keep that pain from the next generation is understandable, especially for her. She has a deep capacity for love in her, for compassion, and he absolutely can imagine her vowing to spare her future children pain, even if that means never having any.

The guards at the palace gates nod Sinbad by without a word. They know him well by now. He's grateful to the sultan for his generosity, especially during this difficult time. He and Rongar don't care about their surroundings and would be just as content to stay on the Nomad, but Doubar enjoys the hedonistic pleasures of the palace and Firouz its library and supply of materials for his inventions. He's happy to see his friends content, especially when in seven moons he might lose them forever.

Right now, that all hinges on Maeve. Sinbad has to admit that, despite knowing her for well over a year, he has no idea what she will decide. Their trip north this evening proved to him how little he knows about his sorceress, and he hates it. She's part of him. Even now, knowing she's so far away, there's a hollow ache in his gut he can't ignore. How she can be so vital, so enmeshed with him, when she's still a complete mystery, he doesn't know. He'd nail her feet to the floor and demand answers if he could, but she's an evasive thing, and so wary. Making demands won't get him anywhere.

Well. Making demands of _her_ won't get him anywhere. Sinbad's steps slow. He was on his way to the wing of the palace where Omar graciously houses them, but now he changes his mind. Doubar can wait a little while longer. He turns east, rattles down a staircase, and heads for the library.

"Dermott?"

The hawk is there, as Sinbad suspected, awaiting Maeve's return. He's a sight-hawk and roosts at night, which means he shouldn't be awake in the darkness, but he is. Yet another clue that should have tipped Sinbad off; this is no bird.

He lights a lantern and several candles Maeve left littering a low table. The palace servants have been ordered not to disturb her work, and they obey without question. Sinbad wonders if she'll continue to work through this library now. He won't stop her if she does, but he doubts there's anything to find. He's not a sorcerer but he's always trusted his intuition, and his gut tells him the Tam Lin Protocol is the only way to defeat Scratch's claim on his soul. Al-Alawy believes it. Antoine believes it. If two such disparate authorities believe, Sinbad does, too.

Sinbad looks at the hawk perched high on a bookshelf. Dermott looks back with his bright black raptor's eyes. There's no emotion in them—birds don't have facial expressions. He watches the hawk for a long, quiet moment. Maeve dotes on the animal. Loves him far more than any human. When she thought Dermott had been killed by the Vorgon, it nearly broke her. Sinbad didn't understand before, but now he does.

"Maeve isn't coming back tonight," he says, lowering himself to a cushion next to the low table. He rests his arm on its sturdy wooden strength. The bird is cloaked in flickering shadow from the dancing candlelight. Sinbad longs for the bright magical light-globes in Antoine's house. He wants to really see Dermott. "She's at Breakwater."

The hawk's head jerks, then lowers. He clucks softly, warily, and shifts his weight from foot to foot, his deadly talons rasping the wooden bookshelf.

Sinbad picked up Maeve's habit of talking to the bird long ago, but he didn't realize until now that he doesn't speak to it like a human being, but like a pet. Like something that can't understand and won't answer back. Now he has to reevaluate. Antoine says there's a man in there somewhere.

"I wish someone had told me she had a brother. It would have made things a lot easier."

Dermott squawks, loud and unhappy. His wings spread and he glides silently from the bookshelf to the table. Hawks don't have facial expressions, but Sinbad swears the gleam in those bright black eyes is accusatory.

"Nobody told me. Antoine let something drop and I figured it out."

The hawk shifts, its head weaving back and forth like a cobra. It opens its beak and hisses.

"Why are you so mad at me? Why keep it a secret at all? Breakwater I get. You have to protect the _sìthichean_, and all those books. But why keep yourself so secret? People would treat you better if they knew."

A sudden vision flashes in his head, sharp in its clarity but hazy at the edges—a memory, though not his. A large man with a long beard pokes at him through the bars of a metal cage. "It's simple, bird," the man says. "You perform, or you don't eat. It's your choice. I know you understand."

The vision dissolves. Sinbad blinks and shakes his head a little. Dermott communicated with him this way once before and he's not as shocked this time, but it's still a little unsettling to see pictures in his head of things he never experienced.

"Okay, I get it. But I wouldn't do that to you. Don't you know that by now?"

Dermott clucks and resettles his wings along his sides.

"Rumina did this to you." He doesn't have to ask. After what she did to Goz and the other half-man-half-beast creatures he found on her island, he won't put anything past her. "Can you tell me why?"

Another vision takes him. He's on a rocky, windy coastline.

"Time's up, Celt." He recognizes that low, sulky voice, though it's younger than he's used to. Rumina. She dismounts from the back of a black horse. She wears a long black cape as protection from the buffeting wind. He's shocked by the difference in her face. She's younger, in her late teens, and the softer, more youthful set of her features makes him want to say she looks innocent. The cold gleam in her eyes is anything but.

"You said three days!" The protest comes from his own mouth, but the voice isn't his. The accent is thick, thicker than Maeve's or Antoine's. He shoves a hank of messy red hair out of his eyes only for the wind to blow it right back.

"I changed my mind. You've had plenty of time to consider my offer." She strokes the nose of her horse. Her fingernails are red with lacquer.

"You can go to hell, witch!" The voice is high and he almost doesn't recognize it. He lunges for the whirl of red hair and blue wool, catching Maeve by the collar before she can launch herself at Rumina and make the situation worse. As Antoine said, she's tall but not yet grown, skinny and somewhat awkward in her skin, maybe twelve or thirteen. A spatter of pale freckles covers her nose and cheeks. Despite the awkwardness, he can absolutely see the beauty she will become in another few years.

An elegant hand squeezes his shoulder, warm and strong. Nessa. She looks at him, her other arm helping to restrain the struggling hellcat who wants nothing more than to attack the witch. In Ness's warm, fearless gaze he sees…everything. And he understands.

"I'm sorry, Rumina, but my wee tigress is right. You can go to hell."

The witch scowls, and despite the age difference this is absolutely the Rumina Sinbad knows. Power gathers in her hands, deep blue and malevolent. "You get one more chance, my pretty boy. Come with me now, or you'll regret it."

"You can kill me if you like, sorceress, but you can't own a Celt. Nobody can."

Nessa spits at the witch.

Sinbad isn't sure which makes Rumina angrier. Her magic intensifies, hands glowing with power. The dangerous gleam in her eyes turns deadly. "Kill you? Oh, no. I said you'd regret your decision. How can you regret it if you're dead?" Slowly, almost casually, she raises her hand and points at Maeve.

The struggling girl in Sinbad's grasp screams and goes rigid under her blue cloak.

"Rumina!" Sinbad protests. He pushes her into Nessa's arms and lunges for the witch.

"Halt, my pretty Celt." Rumina holds up her hand and he finds himself frozen, unable to move at all. He struggles against her magic, but even at her young age she's strong. She paces to him and draws his sword, tossing it aside. The big, double-edged broadsword is heavy and she has to use two hands; with a start, Sinbad realizes it's the sword Maeve carries now, with the blue knotwork inlay. "It's really too bad you refuse to see things my way." She strokes his cheek. It's only a memory, but even so Sinbad shudders. He wants to yell at Nessa, to tell her to take Maeve and run, but Maeve is tall and Nessa slim—he doubts she can carry her.

"But don't worry, lovely boy." Rumina smiles. It's the smile of a snake. "You're going to live a long life. And I'll even keep you pretty. What can I say? I'm feeling generous." She releases the spell on him, freeing his movements.

He stumbles but regains his balance quickly. He puts his body between the witch and the girls, blocking her view of them. Maeve is dazed but conscious, collapsed in a pile of long, skinny limbs, Nessa's protective arms hard around her. "Fight me if you will, witch, but leave them be. I'm what you want."

"No. You're what I _wanted_. I don't like it when people tell me no. Daddy says no one can do that but him." Power gathers in her hands again, dark and dangerous. "Besides, I'm not going to hurt them. You are."

A shout sounds from the treeline, several hundred yards away. Antoine and Keely emerge at a dead run. He's much faster, wings humming at his back as his bare feet hammer the rocky ground. She's pulling her clothes back on even as she follows. She yells a word Sinbad can't make out and reaches toward them. Power the color of her strange green forelock surges from her palm, rocketing toward Rumina.

The witch curses and ducks. "You'll pay for that! You all will." She brings her hands together and Sinbad—Dermott—screams.

The hawk cuts off the memory there. Sinbad sucks in a breath, thankful for the knowledge, but also for the end of it. He has no wish to experience the transformation, even vicariously. Knowing what was about to happen is enough.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

Dermott chirps and puffs his feathers.

"You and Nessa, huh? She's stunning."

The hawk's cluck is softer—wistful. If Maeve was a young teenager when he was turned, that means Dermott has been trapped in the body of a hawk for years. Maeve is grown, and Antoine and Keely have two children. Sinbad can't imagine how that must feel, watching life pass by, unable to truly take part. Waiting, unsure whether he'll ever get to rejoin the rest of humanity.

"We stopped the worst of it."

Sinbad whirls, hand immediately reaching for his saber.

It's Antoine.

"What are you doing here?" he demands, heaving a relieved breath. "How did you get past the guards?"

The man's lazy, crooked grin splits his face. "_Sìthiche_, remember? I don't need doors." He disappears abruptly, only to reappear three feet to the left. "It's a useful trick." He nods at the hawk perched on the table. "Dermott."

Dermott clucks.

Seeing the bare-chested _sìthiche_ standing in Omar's library in the dead of night, utterly nonchalant, throws Sinbad slightly. "Is Maeve all right?" He can't think of any other reason for the man to be here.

Ant waves away his concern. "She's tough. She's fine." He pulls a glass bottle from the waistband of his trousers. "She sent you home without this, that's all."

Sinbad accepts the gift. A full bottle of whiskey, considering its legendary status and nonexistence here in the south, is likely worth more than the entire contents of his last cargo. "Thanks. But…you came all the way here? For this?" He's still a little thrown, seeing Ant in Basra. "Isn't it dangerous? Don't you sleep?"

Ant rolls his eyes. "I have two small children. I haven't slept a night through in years." His eyes flick to Dermott, then back again. "Besides, it's only dangerous if the wrong people find out. I told you Maeve is overprotective."

"What did you mean when you said you stopped the worst of it?" Sinbad slowly sits again, setting the bottle of whiskey on the table near Dermott.

Ant sits as well, settling his lankier body on a cushion. "Nice place. Where are we?"

"The palace of the sultan of Basra." Sinbad likes Omar a great deal, but the savage sultan is a collector of oddities. He suspects it's best Omar never learns a fairy was in his library. "What did you mean?"

Antoine looks at Dermott again. The hawk chirrups at him; Sinbad can't decipher the meaning. "A hawk is a noble creature. Not human, which means this form is still a cage, but I'm sure you could imagine worse fates."

"I can." Sinbad's own comes to mind, if Maeve refuses to help him.

"The witch's original intent was to turn Maeve and Ness into mice."

"Oh." Now he sees. Hawks eat mice.

"In the confusion and fog of being just-turned, instinct would have won out. Dermott wouldn't have been able to help it."

And he would have had to live with the guilt of that for the rest of his life. Rumina's threats now make more sense, and the sadistic nature of her curse sickens Sinbad. She said she wasn't going to hurt the girls, that Dermott would do that himself. Had she been successful in her plan, he would have.

"Keel and I got there in time to protect the girls, but the damage to Dermott was already done." Ant's hand reaches out, touching the hawk lightly. "Keely's a healer by nature, which means her magic's good for protection but not fighting. Mine is basic at best, for a _sìthiche_. We could stop Rumina from doing more harm, but not undo what was already done."

"My old master Dim-Dim says curses are insidious things. Maddening to try to undo, not like other spells."

"Oh, aye. If they were easy to undo, what would be the point?"

Dermott squawks and fidgets, the feathers along his spine lifting.

"Apologies, old friend." Antoine nods his head in deference. "I know it's been hell."

Sinbad considers the men before him—one cursed to live as an animal, the other to live in hiding. "So Maeve came south to hunt Rumina."

"Not right away. I'd never have allowed it, even with Dermott to watch over her. She was too young and too angry to be on her own; she'd have got herself killed within a week."

Dermott clucks his agreement.

"No, we went seeking knowledge first. To the Breakwaters. To every _sìthiche_ we could find. To sorcerers, to healers. Anyone we could think of. Only after that failed did we let Maeve go." Ant rubs the back of his curly head and shifts on his cushion. He's agitated, still unhappy with this decision. "No one wanted to. Wren and Niall were with us by then, but they already had two boys and a third on the way. They couldn't travel like that, not for a prolonged time. Not with the constant insecurity of being on the road, never knowing when the quest would end." He rubs his face lightly, the faintest shadow of black stubble on his cheeks and chin. "Keely had been with Maeve and Dermott for years before Ness and I showed up. She had every intention of going with them, and I didn't have the right to stop her. Or the heart to."

Something Nessa said earlier in the evening while squabbling with her brother now clicks in Sinbad's head. "But you got her pregnant."

Ant's face crinkles; he looks embarrassed. Dermott trills, the sound suspiciously like laughter. "Yeah."

Nessa's barbed comments now make perfect sense. Ant's older child, the one Sinbad has yet to see—she was conceived during this chaotic time. An accident, Ness said, and not a welcome one.

"We didn't know where Rumina lived, only that she hailed from far to the south and east, areas too populated for Ness and I to travel safely." Antoine shifts on his cushion again. He's smack-dab in the middle of that unsafe area right now, and knows it. Sinbad suspects he'd never dare to be here in the light of day.

"And Keely was carrying a winged child. She would have been just as vulnerable." Sinbad frowns. He doesn't like it any more than Antoine must have, seeing his adopted little sister set off by herself with only a hawk for protection. But what else could they do?

"You think the fight tonight was bad? The day Maeve told Keel she couldn't go with her was…apocalyptic."

Dermott clucks his agreement.

"If Keely had gone, I would have, too, regardless of the danger. But we would have hindered Maeve more than helped. It's better this way, as much as I hate it." He exhales a deep breath, his cheeks puffing as he sighs. "Niall made that bracelet for her so she can come home from time to time. I'm grateful for that, at least."

Sinbad can't imagine. He knows how difficult it was for Doubar to let him go when he became cabin boy for Aiden and the Adventurer crew. Going to sea isn't safe, and he was all Doubar had in the world. But Antoine had to let Maeve, a young girl, leave on her own, no captain or crew to protect her—just a hawk and her brother's sword. She went into the unknown to hunt their enemy, the witch who cursed her brother, with no guarantee she would ever find her, only that the journey would be ridiculously long and dangerous. He isn't a bit surprised that Maeve would dare, but he wishes there had been some other way.

"Now she has you," Antoine adds.

That's right. She does. And she always will, Sinbad vows. She's his.

Dermott squawks, his breast feathers puffing with irritation.

"Fight it all you want, old friend. She's grown, whether you like it or not. Has been for a while." Antoine groans as he climbs to his feet.

Sinbad rises as well. "Thank you." He holds out his hand.

Ant's handshake is warm and firm. "Maeve doesn't like people, but she likes you. That means you're family, no matter what this featherbrain says." He gives Dermott a sly grin.

"I won't hurt her." He'll do his best.

"Best not to. Keel will carve you to pieces if you do, and I don't think I'm exaggerating." Antoine yawns and scrubs his face with his palm. "I'll be running along. If I'm lucky I'll get a wink of sleep before one of the girls is up again." He lifts a hand in farewell to Dermott, and disappears.

Sinbad doesn't like traveling by magic but he's a little envious of that trick. It would be nice to be able to say your piece and disappear, just like that.

"I won't hurt her," he tells the hawk.

Dermott's squawk is skeptical.

Sinbad wonders whether, if he repeats them enough, he can will those words to be true.

* * *

"Sinbad!"

Sinbad isn't surprised that Doubar is still awake despite the late hour. He left his crew in the afternoon after the disastrous meeting with al-Alawy and hasn't seen them since. It feels like days to him, after what he's been through with Maeve.

He is surprised, however, at the jubilant nature of Doubar's voice.

His brother slaps his back heartily several times, almost knocking Sinbad over.

Sinbad is instantly suspicious. As far as he knows, they have nothing to celebrate. "Why so merry?" He sets the bottle of whiskey aside, not offering it. That's the last thing Doubar needs right now.

"Because I'm getting a nephew!" Doubar laughs and claps him on the back again before settling his bulk into a chair near the fire.

"Says who?" Sinbad's suspicion turns to alarm. Maeve isn't here, and wouldn't have spoken to Doubar about her choice even if she was. She's far too private, this subject far too tender. She loves the big bear, but he's not her confidante and never will be.

Doubar giggles like a small child with a secret. "Don't pretend with me. Maeve went to find you early in the evening, and now it's almost morning. I know perfectly well what that means."

Sinbad groans. Despite the whiskey he drank earlier, he feels his headache return at full strength. "We talked, Doubar. Nothing more."

The big man's smug grin falls into confusion. "Little brother, I'm the one who took you to your first brothel. _Talking_ is not how to get a girl big with child. Do I have to explain this to you again?"

Dear gods, this is not what he needs right now. Nor will it make Maeve any more willing to help him, if she hears it. Sinbad scrubs at his face. He wants a wink of sleep, as Antoine put it, though he knows he won't find it. The only reason he was able to sleep the past two nights was Maeve's comforting warmth beside him, and she's not here. "You're putting the cart way, way before the horse. Maeve hasn't agreed to anything, and I'm not sure she will."

Doubar's face contorts. He's a happy man and other emotions don't look right on him; he wears his scowl now as a pauper would a crown. "What do you mean, she hasn't agreed yet? What is she waiting for, a change in the weather?"

"Doubar—" Sinbad tries to protest, but he's exhausted and frustrated, and the words won't come. With Maeve, nothing he said came out right. Now, with his brother, words fail him entirely.

"This is your soul we're talking about! Surely she realizes this is no game?"

"She does." It's no game to her, either. She's hurting, and so is Sinbad, for putting her in this position. He keeps saying he doesn't want to hurt her, but forcing her to make this choice hurts them both.

"Then why is she playing?" Doubar's face goes red easily. He's not the color of a beet yet, but he's at least a radish. "She's been moody since we got here, but I thought it was because of that." He points at the brand on Sinbad's chest, hidden beneath his shirt. "You're the captain. Just give her the command, and that's that."

Sinbad cringes internally. He can't imagine what the fallout would be if he attempted that. He wouldn't have to worry about Scratch, because Maeve would kill him. Dermott would kill him. "It's not that simple."

"Of course it is." Doubar's scowl deepens. "It's not like you're asking for that much. A baby takes, what? Nine moons? You're not asking the girl to marry you." Doubar snorts his opinion of that idea.

Except Sinbad did. He offered to marry her, which she took as an insult. Marriage or no, he's asking her for much more than just nine moons. He's asking for her body, to let him use it and change it in ways no man has ever done before. He doubts she's virgin—the idea is ludicrous, considering she doesn't follow a religion that places value on chastity. But she's young and childless, which means he's asking her to undergo something unknown, something dangerous and probably frightening, something that kills many women. If she survives, she'll be forever altered, changed by the experience…and she'll have a child to care for. In his mind's eye Sinbad sees once again how tenderly she held Lily, her arms perfectly gentle despite her inner turmoil. She'll make a good mother, he's sure of it.

But she doesn't want to be one.

"A child is forever, brother," Sinbad says quietly, frowning at Doubar. "That's what I'm asking of her. Surely you understand that."

Doubar frowns back. "Not if you don't want it to be."

"Our father wouldn't have left our mother, or us." Sinbad doesn't know, not for sure, but he's heard enough from Doubar and Dim-Dim to hope he's right.

Doubar's face turns dark. "Don't bring them into this. It's not the same thing at all."

"How not?"

One meaty hand grabs for the fireplace poker. He jabs irritably at the small fire. "They loved each other. They were married. We were a family."

_I love her_. Sinbad swallows the words back. "We're a family."

"We're a crew. It's different," Doubar says sharply. "You and I are family. Maeve is not."

Antoine's words echo in Sinbad's ears. _Maeve doesn't like people, but she likes you. That means you're family._ "She's Dim-Dim's apprentice. He's tutored many students over the years, but never before took an official apprentice. Doesn't that make her family?"

"His, perhaps."

"And he's ours. Thus…"

"Thus, you're making my head hurt." Doubar puts the poker down and rubs his forehead. He collapses back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight. Quieter now, he looks up at Sinbad with tired gray eyes. "She won't stay, brother. I like her well enough, too, but surely you can see that. She doesn't belong here."

She wasn't born here, no. One glance would tell anyone that. She has the build and the bearing of her wild, proud people—tall and strong and fierce. She's uncivilized, uncouth, and her temper can't be relied upon. If he were a normal man, a farmer or merchant, he knows he could never hope to keep her. But he isn't. He's a sailor—an adventurer. He flies with the wind, can't be held down. Neither can she. Doesn't that mean they can make this work if they want to?

But does she want to? Does he?

"Once we find Dim-Dim, she'll go away with him. You may see her from time to time as she finishes her apprenticeship. But one day we'll return to our old master for a visit, and she won't be there. Whatever task she came south to do, she'll either complete or die trying. You're not part of that story." Doubar's voice is soft—as soft as it was when he told Sinbad Leah's body had been found. "You need her help now. Fine. You've saved her life enough times, she owes you. But don't get confused. Don't pretend this is more than it is. She'll save your soul from Scratch and give you a fine, hearty son besides. He'll be yours to keep if you want him. But not her. She's not the type to stay, and she's not what anyone would want in a wife, anyway."

Funny. Sinbad thinks she's exactly what he'd want in a wife, if he wanted one. Which he doesn't. But if he did.

Doubar groans as he rises from his chair. "I'm to bed now. That girl better have her head straight by morning." He stretches slowly. The fire has all but gone out. "Tell her to beware, when you see her. Omar says Rumina's been seen in the city."

Sinbad swears. "You couldn't have told me earlier?"

"Forgot. I was too excited about that nephew of mine."

Not this again. "She may say no, you know. She has every right to. And even if she says yes, she's just as likely to have a daughter."

"You, father a daughter?" Doubar laughs again. "That's funny."

Antoine has fathered two, despite being bigger than Sinbad, and quiet Niall has five sons if Nessa's to be believed. Whatever it is that decides the sex of a child, Sinbad's sure a man's virility has nothing to do with it. He settles in the chair Doubar vacated and feeds a little more wood to the fire, though he isn't cold. He doesn't like Maeve being so far away. It feels…unnatural. Uncomfortable. Without her warmth he won't even try to sleep. Besides, if Rumina's in the city, he needs to be awake to warn her when she gets back.

Doubar leaves the room, heading to his bed. It's nearly morning. Sinbad glances at the tray of fruit and cheese left for them on a low table, but he isn't hungry. All he wants is his sorceress back. He doesn't like the future Doubar painted for him at all—a future where he continues to sail, yes, but a future without Maeve in it.

But was he really so wrong? She belongs to Dim-Dim; that much is undeniable. Apprenticeship is a contract of ownership as binding as marriage, if not as lasting. Dim-Dim legally owns her. Knowing what he knows now, hearing both Antoine and Dermott claim so forcefully that no one can own a Celt, he wonders why she agreed to such a contract. He knows as well as any southerner that Celts don't fare well in captivity; they tend to suicide rather than submit to slavery, and finding one in a slave market is rare. He hadn't realized until today that they consider all contractual ownership anathema, though he isn't really surprised. Not after knowing Maeve.

Doubar knows she hates Rumina and wants the witch dead, but not why. He doesn't know Turok's daughter is the reason Maeve came south, or that once Rumina is gone, Maeve's quest will be over. The older man grasped the bigger picture faster than Sinbad, however. Maeve has her own story; she's not just part of Sinbad's. Their paths converged when the Caliph sent him to hunt Turok. According to Doubar, at some point they will diverge again. That's how life works; Sinbad understands that. He's a sailor. His life is made up of meetings and partings, often with very little time in between. He just…never expected this particular parting, and he doesn't like considering it. Maeve is part of him. He's afraid. How much of him will she take with her when she leaves?

_If_ she leaves. He sets his jaw; his fists clench involuntarily. He's the master of the seven seas. After Leah's death he swore he'd never be at the mercy of the sea again, and he made himself its master. Through strength of will and sheer tenacity, he reshaped his future, his world, to be as he chose. Who's to say he can't do so again?

He couldn't prevent the loss of Leah. Her death is a lingering wound that will never truly heal. But he refuses to lose Maeve, too. She's his. Part of him—his family, no matter what Doubar thinks. He can't lose that. He won't.

Now he just needs to convince her of it.

* * *

A/N: Someone asked about the whiskey, so a quick historical note. Beer is as old as civilization. Some anthropologists even think humans started cultivating grain not for food, but for beer. Crazy, huh? The origins of hard liquor are hazier. It's a much more recent invention, in any case, and Irish whiskey is one of the earliest distilled liquors that we know of. Sinbad and his crew technically shouldn't be drinking at all if they're Muslim, but they do in the show and where would Doubar be without wine, women, and song?


	6. Chapter 6

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve hasn't returned by the time servants come with breakfast. Sinbad paces the common room of their quarters, barely registering Firouz's sleepy greeting as he stumbles to the table and pours hot tea. He settles himself at the window but can't force his body to stillness, pushing away from the marble wall without the view ever really registering. He needs his sorceress home again, back with him where she belongs. If Omar is correct Rumina is in the city, which means Maeve is in danger. He needs to warn her. Moreover, he needs to stay with her. The impulsive, angry child he saw in Dermott's vision last night is still very much part of her, and she can't be trusted to think rationally where Rumina is concerned. Her quest is his as well now and he wants Dermott free, too, but Rumina is strong. He doesn't want Maeve running into her without prior warning.

"Did, ah, Maeve find you last night?" Firouz blows on his tea as Rongar appears, dressed and more awake than his comrade.

"Aye." Sinbad doesn't want to talk about it.

Firouz and Rongar exchange a glance. "And…?"

"She's thinking." His voice dares Firouz to question her right.

Unlike Doubar, the inventor does not. He tears fresh flatbread as Rongar settles at the table. "We'll have to stay closer to shore. If she agrees, that is. Closer to known ports, cities where she can seek a midwife. I find human gestation fascinating but haven't the knowledge to care for her. Midwives are very protective of their craft, I've found, and don't readily share its secrets."

Not with a man, anyway. When Firouz gets going he often lacks tact, and Sinbad can absolutely understand any woman refusing to speak with a pushy man about matters relating to pregnancy and childbirth. Firouz is nothing but well-meaning, seeking knowledge not just for its own sake but also to better the condition of the people he meets, but even still.

"Doubar said Rumina's been sighted in the city." Sinbad changes the subject on purpose. There's no point in making plans until Maeve's made her choice. If she refuses him they'll have to search for Talia, who could be anywhere. The last time he ran into her, she was about to be hanged for stealing. He wouldn't be surprised to find her locked in a prison somewhere, or running from one.

"Aye, Omar warned us personally last night." Firouz scoops up runny yogurt with his flatbread and licks his fingers.

Rongar, with no tongue to taste, has little care for what he eats. He drinks tea for the jolt of energy and eats to fuel his body, nothing more. He mimics holding a soldier's lance and points out the window at the sprawling city below.

"Yes, Omar says he's sent guards into the city and posted extra at the gates. The last time Rumina was here she nearly caused an international incident and he wants her apprehended if possible."

Sinbad appreciates the thought, but he knows better than to trust in Omar's soldiers. No matter how skilled they may be, they won't be able to catch or keep the evil sorceress. She appears and disappears as she pleases, as easily as Antoine did last night. No, capturing Rumina is not an option. She must be killed to be stopped, the same as her father. Sinbad managed to kill Turok using the element of surprise and sheer dumb luck, two things he often has on his side. He suspects they'll need more than that to best the daughter. Turok was evil, but largely unemotional. Rumina hates him and hates Maeve, and her vindictive streak makes her more unpredictable, and therefore more dangerous, than her father.

Knowing this, Sinbad's impatience to find Maeve wins out over his cooler, more logical side. She should be back by now, and he needs to warn her. He abandons their quarters, leaving Firouz and Rongar to their food, and heads for the library. He'll check there and the Nomad, and even Cairpra's, he tells himself firmly, before really worrying. His pulse trips and speeds, belying his words. His body's already past worry, even if his head doesn't want to admit it.

Dermott is gone from his bookshelf perch when Sinbad enters the library. Hawks happily eat vermin, so even in cities the bird feeds himself easily and Sinbad suspects he's hunting. He's disappointed; he'd hoped to use the hawk's bond with Maeve to locate her.

But it can't be helped; the hawk isn't here. He turns to leave, but something catches his eye and he freezes.

He was in the library late last night, speaking with Dermott and Antoine in the wee hours, leaning on the low table Maeve favors. She left it littered with several half-burned candles but not strewn with books—she's reverent with the texts and takes great care with them, returning all books and scrolls to their proper places once finished. Last night he lit her candles as he spoke with her brothers, and he knows there were no books left on the table. Now there are.

His stomach drops past the floor and his body tenses, ready for a fight.

"A little light reading, Rumina?"

"I could ask you the same." She emerges from the shadowy recesses of the stacks, tapping a priceless scroll against a fingertip. Reedy bits of papyrus flake away, crumbling to the floor. That's enough to make Maeve hate her, if she didn't already.

Sinbad considers the sorceress carefully. Magic and beauty are the only things she and Maeve share, and even in these they are wholly opposed. Maeve is tall and lush, strong and vibrant, her magic the colors of fire and life. Rumina is pale not with northern blood but with living ever in darkness, her chosen path of cruelty and destruction twisting and mangling her beauty, turning her to something terrible, something almost inhuman.

She wasn't always this way. The cold, cruel streak may be inherent, a gift from her malevolent father, but Sinbad saw in Dermott's memory a girl in her late teens who wasn't yet this. Cruel, yes. Calculating, absolutely. The sadistic nature of the curse she meant to lay on Dermott, thankfully only half implemented, staggers him. But she wasn't yet so thoroughly twisted or depraved, her soul so completely deformed. Whether maturity alone or the added burden of her father's influence created what she is, Sinbad doesn't know. Neither does he care. After everything she's done to him, to Maeve, to Dermott, he has no sympathy for the witch.

She smiles, baring her teeth. It's the smile of a predator. "I knew this is where you would come, dearest. Everything you've done, every move you've made since our last tiff. I knew it all."

"You call destroying Skull Mountain a tiff?"

"Collateral damage." She shrugs her shoulders lightly. "Your little stunt with the Gryphon's Egg saved me from making a big mistake. I ought to thank you for that."

Sinbad rubs the brand on his chest, hidden by his clothes. "If this is how you say thank you, I'd hate to see your idea of an insult."

"That?" She waves her hand, scattering more scraps of brittle papyrus. "That was just to get your attention. Do I have it yet?"

"I'm all ears."

"That smelly demon is a trifle miffed at me right now. I went back on…a previous deal we struck. So I had to offer him something. To placate him." She glides forward silently, silk slippers soundless on Omar's thick rugs.

"Who said you had the right to bargain with my soul in the first place?" This is the part that angers him most, because it's the part he feels responsible for. If Maeve is correct, his trade for Serendib's life left him vulnerable to this attack.

"Scratch accepted, so I don't see the point in quibbling over that now." She steps forward again. Sinbad steps back. She's a little thing, short and soft, like most southern women. Physically he has nothing to fear. But he has no illusions about the danger from her magical power, and he doesn't want her close enough to touch him. "I'll be generous and save you some time—there's only one way to ensure he never gets that precious soul of yours. You can delve through every library between here and Nippon; it won't do you any good. There are no more answers to find."

Yeah, he suspected as much. "What's your game this time, Rumina? Do you want the devil to take my soul or not?" He thought so. He killed her father and destroyed her home; he thought she was done playing these games with him. Now he's not so sure.

"It's an option. I'm willing to let him. Don't misunderstand that."

"I'm not." He has no illusions about her care for him or any other man. Whatever state her heart is in, assuming she has one, it doesn't allow for true compassion. She would never have cursed Dermott, or Goz for that matter, if it did.

She drops the scroll from her hand and steps forward, crushing the papyrus under her slipper. She pays it no mind; Sinbad wonders what priceless knowledge she just destroyed without a thought. "By now you'll have learned that the Tam Lin Protocol is your only recourse. You keep that damnable Celt with you. She'll know. Even if she doesn't, now you're in Basra, the center of magical discourse." She wrinkles her dainty little nose. "_White_ magical discourse."

"Where's the center of black magical discourse?" The question is out before he can think better of it, his morbid curiosity winning out over his more rational mind. He winces internally.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She giggles. The sound is high and piping, like the laugh of a small child. The sheer inappropriateness of the incongruity sets Sinbad's teeth on edge.

"Why are you here, Rumina?" He's tired of all this shit, more even than he is of Maeve's evasiveness. She hides from him through an overdeveloped sense of self-preservation, which isn't really her fault. Rumina toys with him on purpose. "To gloat? Why? If I choose to try the protocol, all you've done is push me into the arms of another woman."

"Oh no, my dear sailor. You don't understand." She sits gracefully, not on one of the many cushions littering the floor, but on the low table itself. "This is between you and me. Scratch's mark merely ensures that you see things my way." She crosses her ankles primly but leans toward him, exposing even more of her breasts than her low-cut clothes already show. "You need to get a girl with child to break Scratch's hold. I told you before that our daughter would be powerful, our son unstoppable."

"Uh, no thanks." When hell freezes over. She's a beauty, there's no denying that. But there are depths even he won't sink to for a pretty face.

"Best reconsider. There's a brain inside that pretty head of yours, I know there is. Think—you've all but ensured that no other woman will help you. You have a sterling reputation as an adventurer, but your fame with the ladyfolk is more…infamy, I'm afraid."

Sinbad frowns. Whatever she's getting at, he's not interested. He can see her plan now, what she meant. She made a deal with Scratch but never intended for the devil to collect.

"Oh, they all love you. _Adore_ you. Apparently there's a thing you do with your tongue that I'm quite curious about."

Sinbad feels the tips of his ears heat. He's not sure if he's embarrassed or pleased in a sick, macabre sort of way.

"But they know you won't stay. No woman in her right mind would willingly bear you a child, because they know you won't provide for it, won't shelter or clothe or feed it. Giving you a child won't make you stay with them, won't make you love them, and no woman will do that willingly without anything in return."

And the thing is, she's right. A sick ache spreads in his gut. She's wrong about providing—he'll do all he can to provide for his child and the woman who bears it, regardless. But giving him a child can't make him love someone. Human hearts don't work that way. So why should any woman want to help him?

"You can't make me love you, either, Rumina," he says cautiously. "We've been through this."

"Luckily for me it's not your love I'm after. Only your compliance."

The callous nature of her attitude sickens him further. And yet, isn't that exactly what he'd be asking of Talia, or any other woman? No emotional ties. Just a transaction.

Any woman but Maeve.

"Don't get any foolish ideas about that Celt of yours, either. If she was willing to help you she would have done so by now." Her nose wrinkles in distaste. "Barbarian wench."

Maeve hates being called a wench, even by Doubar, who means no harm. "She's a member of my crew. There's no call for your disrespect."

"There's no call for my respect, either." Rumina frowns, and the mood in the room, previously tense, sharpens dangerously. "Protective of the girl, are we? She doesn't like me. She'll have to be disposed of, you know. Can't have trash like that around your future wife."

Sinbad's irritation turns to anger, simmering hot in his belly. His hand shifts, moving closer to his saber. He's fast, but so is she. He doesn't know if he can draw and attack before she reacts, and he knows whatever magic she unleashes will be deadly. "She has good reason not to like you."

Rumina's eyes flash, dark and malevolent. "I have good reason not to like you, and yet here we are." She spreads her arms, motioning to the empty library. "I'm here, willing to save your soul from the devil, and where is she?"

"Here, witch!" A flash of flame-colored hair lights the corner of Sinbad's vision as Maeve hurls herself through the doorway.

The time for talk is over. Sinbad draws his saber, dropping into a fighting stance, hoping Maeve knows what she's doing. She's not usually as reckless as Doubar but when Rumina's involved she can't control herself. After speaking to Dermott and Antoine, Sinbad can't blame her.

She attacks first not with magic or sword, but with her fists. Whichever brother taught her to fistfight like a man, Sinbad's grateful. Rumina may possibly know how to catfight but she's not prepared for hard knuckles to the mouth and she screams with rage as she ducks away too slowly to prevent contact, blood streaming from a properly split lip. Sinbad allows himself a moment of deep satisfaction. He'll fight a woman if he has to, if she attacks him first, but he can't bring himself to sock one in the face like that, even Rumina. Maeve has no such compunctions, and he revels in it.

And yes, his suspicions were correct—Rumina will catfight. She lunges for the Celt's eyes with long red nails, but Maeve is bigger and fights like a man, not a girl. She brushes the attack aside with nothing more than a sharp rake to her sleeved arm and drives under it, landing a solid blow to the gut that knocks the wind out of the witch.

Rumina turns purple and doubles over as she gasps for air. Sinbad is happy to let Maeve handle this but he remains close, saber drawn, in case he's needed. She draws her dagger and he doesn't stop her. After all the witch has done to her, Maeve deserves to have this.

His sorceress paces forward, the cautious step of a hunter closing in on wounded, desperate prey. She lifts her blade to finally end her quest, but Rumina straightens, hands glowing with dark power. She lashes out, not needing to be close enough to touch, and catches Maeve in the chest with the blow.

Maeve flies back, knocked sprawling to the floor, cursing loudly in her native tongue. She fires back, but magic requires concentration and she's too angry to focus properly. Rumina blocks easily, panting, blood pouring from her lip.

"Peasant whore!" she screeches, wiping at the red stream. Sinbad doubts she's ever been hit like that before. He steps firmly between them, needing to distract the witch, to protect his sorceress.

"Why do you keep calling me that? I'm not a peasant, I'm a vagabond," Maeve yells back, panting. "If you're going to insult me, do it right!"

Rumina ducks around Sinbad's bulk as if he's not even there. Whether she doesn't want to fight him or is just intent on Maeve Sinbad doesn't know. He wants to grab for her, to keep her from his sorceress, but she's wearing very little and there just isn't anything appropriate to catch hold of.

Maeve's on her feet again and seems slightly more grounded, which is good. He's no magician but he spent enough time around Dim-Dim to know she needs to be centered and focused to fight with magic. Fists and swords are muscle memory, instinct trained into the body through long years of toil. Magic doesn't work that way.

Her inner flame flashes in her eyes, the fury at her longtime enemy apparent even as power gathers in her hand, the molten color of fire. "Your clothes are dirty," she taunts.

Rather than another insult Rumina hurls power, but she's nearly as angry as Maeve now and her focus is sloppy, her aim poor. Maeve ducks easily.

"Heathen!" Rumina spits blood on the sultan's costly silk rug. "Dim-Dim didn't know what he was doing, the old dotard, taking you for his protégé! You can't best me with magic so you used fists like the little savage you are!"

Maeve attacks again, hitting the witch squarely in the chest with her magic, but it only knocks her back a few paces. "Focus, girl!" Sinbad snaps. He's not really sure if this is his fight to enter or not, but Maeve isn't going to win on her own if she keeps letting Rumina distract her with insults.

The glare Maeve gives him is pure fire. "Feel free to jump in any time!"

"Oh, no." Rumina steps forward, power gathering in her hands once more. "He's mine, and I like him pretty. I wouldn't want to accidentally hurt that face. Yours, however—" She attacks. Power surges through her, aided by the moment to gather herself. Unlike Maeve's bursts of fire this continues, the witch pressing the attack, bearing down as Maeve cries out and stumbles back. Her hands rise in what Sinbad recognizes as the beginning of a defensive spell, but Rumina redoubles her onslaught, raking daggers of raw magic across Maeve's face like fingernails. Maeve screams and staggers back. There's an open window behind her.

Sinbad lurches for Rumina. He won't reach Maeve in time, he's too far away after this sudden attack, but he has Rumina pinned against his chest in an instant, sword at her throat. "Release her!" he orders.

"Choose, sailor!" She laughs, that high, insane giggle that chills him. "You can kill me now…or you can save her." She releases one final burst of power, knocking Maeve backward through the window.

There's no choice—there never was. Maeve's life means more to him than killing an enemy ever will. He drops his sword and dives for the window.

She's there, hurt but alive, hanging on the slippery marble ledge, fighting to keep her grip. Her eyes clench tight against the blood on her face, seeping from deep gouges Rumina's attack left on her.

"I'm here. Keep your eyes closed. Easy now." He grasps her arm. She releases her grip on the ledge without hesitation when she feels his touch, locking her strong hands on his arms instead, trusting him to keep her safe.

He does, pulling her back up and into the room, collapsing with her on the floor. She's panting heavily and so is he, stricken with the shock of almost losing her. They're four floors above a stone courtyard—she wouldn't have survived. He forces air into his lungs and hugs her body against his chest hard. She's warm and solid in his arms, very much alive despite Rumina's intent. He closes his eyes for a long moment, mouth pressed against the red silk of her hair. If he'd been too late, if the witch managed to kill her, he'd never forgive himself. As it is he struggles with this close call, how near Maeve came to falling.

She pushes on his shoulder until he loosens his grip just slightly, just enough for her to take a deeper breath and move her arms. He's not letting go any more than that; he refuses. She curses in her native tongue, dabbing at the blood on her face with her long sleeves, trying to wipe the red stickiness from her eyes. "I hate that she always gets away."

Sinbad shifts his grip on her warm body. He catches the cuff of his sleeve with one hand, helping her dab the blood from her eyes. His other arm remains firm around her—he's serious about not letting go. He almost lost her a moment ago and his stomach churns, sick with residual fear.

Maeve swipes at her wounds with impatience, hissing as her sleeve catches a deep spot near her eye.

"Hey, stop that. Just breathe for a minute." He pulls her hands away from her face, holding her wrists firmly with one hand. She's far too nonchalant after having been knocked out a window, angry at Rumina's escape but heedless of the grisly fate she barely avoided. "Do you even realize you nearly died? Look at me."

It's difficult; one eye squints open. She winces against the sting of blood. "I was perfectly safe," she snaps irritably, and tugs her wrists free of his grasp. Her face is a mess—four gashes like the claws of a predator cross her cheeks and nose, one just a hair's breadth from her left eye. Head wounds bleed a lot and hers are no exception, covering her face with sticky redness.

Sinbad swears. He's not usually one for manhandling people but he hauls them both roughly to their feet, keeping her body tight against his, and leans them out the open window. "Does that look perfectly safe to you?" he demands. "Unless you're more _sìthiche _than Antoine says, you almost broke to pieces in Omar's courtyard." He pulls his head back in, furious himself now.

"I did not!" Her eyes water, smarting as blood stings them. She wipes with the bloody cuffs of her sleeves as tears mix with blood on her face. "You were there. I knew you wouldn't let me fall."

The matter-of-fact way she says it, her absolute belief in him, silences any further argument he could possibly make. He drops onto a cushion and pulls her with him.

She curls willingly against him. Her body shakes softly with the aftermath of Rumina's magical assault, but she seems physically unhurt aside from her poor face. She closes her eyes again, her wounds continuing to bleed. Sinbad holds her close heedless of the mess. His clothes already have their share of bloodstains; a few more hardly matter. He squeezes her hard as she trembles, unsure how to stop the shaking. Dim-Dim told him at some point, he's sure, but he can't remember. He kisses her forehead, above the mess of the rest of her face. Her hairline is damp with perspiration. He touches his mouth to her warm skin, the red silk of her hair.

Rumina is gone for the moment, but that doesn't mean they're safe. She'll be back at some point; this conversation isn't over. She wants him. No matter how many times he turns her down, it never seems to be enough. Sinbad hugs Maeve close. She's always been a target to Rumina, but he fears he made things worse today by defending her. Rumina doesn't know how much Maeve means to him—no one does—but she has a better grasp after today. He swears once more that he'll protect her, whether she wants him to or not.

"Do you want Firouz?" He'll fetch him if she wants, though he's not sure what Firouz can do. She's already pressing her ruined sleeves against the magical gouges, urging them to clot.

She shakes her head.

"Do you want Keely?" Antoine said her magic was for healing.

Maeve shakes her head again. "Just you."

Good. He peels off his vest and presses it against her poor face. Rumina meant to attack her beauty, and she succeeded. "That's going to scar," he says as gently as possible. Maybe she'll end up looking like a mysterious rogue. She's still his, regardless, but he knows she likes being beautiful, enjoys the attention and flattery it brings her. She won't like wearing Rumina's scars across her lovely face.

She licks the blood from her lips and shrugs off his worry. "Keel can fix it. You think I've never been mauled before?"

"Then why don't you want to go to her?"

Maeve shifts in his arms, lifting herself so she can settle her mouth against his.

Oh.

She tastes like blood and something faintly strange—he suspects it's magic. It tastes…it tastes like he thinks lightning would. Like the sky before a storm. He presses his mouth to hers and exhales a long breath through his nose. She's okay. She's fine. Rumina won't stop and that's a problem, but she came through this battle largely unscathed. He strokes her hair away from her face, flyaway tendrils sticky with blood, tucking them behind her ear.

"Sinbad?"

"Mm." He kisses her temple, careful near her scratches. Rumina came frighteningly close to her left eye and he shudders lightly with the thought of how bad the damage could have been. Keely may be able to heal wounds without scarring but he doubts she could replace a missing eye. He's gripping her too tightly again, but she's not complaining so he's not stopping.

"We're doing this." Her tone is firm—decisive. She's made her choice.

"What—here? Now?" he asks uncertainly. She's still shaking and covered in blood. He's not saying no, exactly, but still.

"No." He can't see the withering look she gives him, most of her face buried under bloodstained linen, but it's a familiar one and he can picture it perfectly. "But Rumina has taken too much from me already. I refuse to let her take you, too. She doesn't get to win this time." Her voice is hard steel, uncompromising.

All the air leaves him in a rush. He crushes her against him, ignoring the blood smearing everywhere. A little squeak escapes her as he squeezes her hard. He honestly didn't know what she would decide until now, and spent most of the night going back and forth, first thinking she wouldn't, then that she just might. Nothing is settled yet, nothing safe, but even so his chest relaxes and he breathes easier than he has in days.

"Spiteful witch," she grunts, pushing at his shoulder until his arms relent somewhat, giving her room to take a breath. "Who is she to say what I will or won't do?"

Sinbad isn't sure how much of his conversation with Rumina she heard, but it was obviously enough. She's pissed off and ready to do whatever it takes to defy Rumina. It may not be the best reason anyone's ever had for bearing children, but at this point Sinbad doesn't care. "I'll take care of you. I promise, firebrand."

"You absolutely will not." She glares at him as best she can with one eye, the other buried under his vest. "Sinbad, you listen to me now, and listen good—all that shit she said? Forget it." She shakes her head slightly. "I don't know if you have a reputation among other women or not, but what she said about no one being willing to help you is bullshit."

He presses his forehead to hers, still holding her too tightly and still unwilling to stop. Doubar says she won't stay. Rumina says he won't. Maybe there's gypsy blood in her somewhere, along with the drop of _sìthiche_ Antoine says she carries. Maybe in him, too.

"This isn't a transaction. Do you hear me?" She moves his vest and her second eye cracks open; he receives the full force of that fiery gaze. It's fierce, fearless. It's the look Nessa gave Dermott on that rocky beach, faced with the threat of the same dark witch. "I don't owe you a goddamn thing. You don't owe me, either. I don't want to be housed and clothed and whatever else Rumina claimed. If I wanted that, I could have found a man back in Eire. I didn't need to journey all this way."

She's the most beautiful girl Sinbad thinks he's ever seen. If she wanted a husband, or the Celt equivalent, she'd have no trouble finding one. One who would keep her far better than Sinbad can, with finer clothes, richer surroundings. But she doesn't want to be kept.

He touches her shoulder, smearing blood along her skin. "What do you want, firebrand?" Most women do want to be kept—Rumina isn't wrong about that. It's the safe road, smooth and broad and well-traveled, trod by so many who came before and will come after. It ensures safety and protection for them and their children in this violent, unpredictable world. Often it's clear what the outliers want, the women who choose different paths. Talia, for instance, wants riches, and the freedom to spend them as she pleases.

But Maeve? Other than freeing her brother from Rumina's curse, he honestly doesn't know. If she doesn't want a house and a husband, what does she want?

She doesn't answer immediately. Those fire-dark eyes watch him, but there's no fear in her. Her anger burned it away. Now in the aftermath he's not sure what he sees.

"You need me. I already know that." Her head tips to the side as she appraises him. "But do you want me?"

Her body still shakes, trembling against him despite his rigid hold. Her face is streaked with blood, wounds still seeping, eyes puffy and watery. Dried blood mats her hairline, and her clothes are ruined. So are his.

Doubar says she won't stay. Maeve herself says no one can own a Celt. Dermott doesn't like him touching her; Keely doesn't like him at all.

"More than anything."

"That's all I need."

* * *

"This is not the way to get on my good side, in case you were wondering." Keely stares at Sinbad with those unnerving green eyes for a long moment.

"He didn't do it, and you know it." Maeve pushes her friend lightly.

Keely points. "Kitchen," she orders, and Maeve obeys, Sinbad following closely. He's glad Maeve agreed to bring him; he's not ready to let her go just yet. He's not afraid she'll go back on her word—Maeve doesn't do that—but she's unsteady on her feet, still shaky, and he just watched her plummet out a window. He's not letting her out of his sight until he has to.

Wren is in the kitchen, her youngest son on her hip as she slices bread and cheese for the older ones. Her light eyes widen as she takes in Maeve's wounds. "You look like you lost a fight with Dermott."

Dermott would never harm Maeve intentionally; Sinbad knew that even before he knew what Dermott was. But he's seen the wicked gashes Dermott's talons leave when Maeve catches him without her sturdy leather gauntlet, and he agrees. The gouges across Maeve's poor face look like they were made by an angry predator.

"No," Maeve says as Keely fills a bowl with water from a fixture in the wall. "With Rumina." She sounds disgusted.

Firouz would be fascinated by the idea of running water on demand, something the Romans are rumored to have had. "You're alive," he says, turning his attention back to his sorceress. "I don't call that a loss."

She shrugs. "It wasn't a win."

"Sinbad's right. If you can walk away from a fight with Rumina, you didn't lose." Keely gives him another inscrutable glance. She pushes the water toward Maeve. "Heat."

Maeve touches the surface of the water with a fingertip; instantly it steams. Sinbad isn't sure she should be using her magic again so soon after that fight, but he's in no position to tell her not to.

Keely wets a clean cloth and dabs gently at the dried blood on Maeve's face. "She got you good. I need to clean this up a little so I can see what I'm doing."

"Maeve got her good, too," Sinbad says, unable to help himself. "Cold-clocked her right in the mouth." The memory makes him way, way too happy.

Wren laughs. She counts her stacks of bread and cheese, ensuring she has enough before putting the rest away.

"That's my girl." Keely grins fiercely. "Did Dermott see?"

"No." Maeve grimaces and a deep spot begins to ooze again.

"Too bad. He would have loved it." Keely assesses the four scratches struck across Maeve's face. "She almost got your eye, you know."

"She almost got all of me. I went out the window and we were what? Three floors up?" She looks at Sinbad for confirmation.

"Four," he says tightly. He's surprised she'll admit to it, and he doesn't want to be reminded. Death is an occupational hazard, but this was a close scrape and he doesn't want to see again in his memory her body tumbling out that marble window frame. He places his hand lightly on her hip, wanting the reassurance of her warmth, her body heat against his palm.

"You went out the window?" Wren pauses in her task and raises an eyebrow.

"Sinbad pulled me back in." Maeve shrugs it off.

While Wren's attention is elsewhere, Sinbad spies a little brown hand reach up, stealing a slice of bread from in front of her. He shifts away from the high worktable just enough to be able to look under it, watching as Antoine's older daughter tears the slice in two, giving half to a boy about her size. Sinbad grins and says nothing.

"Hold still now." Keely licks her thumb and touches it to the base of the lowest scratch. She draws it slowly up and over the open wound, sealing it, leaving clean, unbroken skin behind with no trace of scar.

"That's a neat trick." Sinbad has seen healing magic before and even had it used on him, but he's trying to be nice. Keely is important to Maeve. He doesn't have to like her, nor she him, but they do have to at least try to get along for Maeve's sake.

"It's useful with all the kids around." Keely nods at Maeve. "And this one."

"Hey!" Maeve protests.

"Hold still, I said." Keely licks her thumb again and repeats the process.

Wren counts her bread one more time and comes up short. "I'm losing my mind," she mutters, retrieving the loaf from the far counter.

"No, you're not." Maeve closes her eyes as Keely's touch nears them. "Mia and Rory are under the table."

Sinbad's respect for her instantly ratchets up a notch. She didn't even have to look.

"Scalawags," Wren says without heat, cutting another slice.

"Take it up with Ant." Keely licks her thumb again. "I told him he could have as many kids as he wanted, but once they were out they were his problem, not mine."

Sinbad doesn't know her, but he knows Maeve, and they grew up together. He absolutely believes Keely told her _céile_ this, and just as firmly believes she means none of it. As she heals the final wound on Maeve's face, he breathes a little easier. He'd want his sorceress regardless of scars, but for her sake he's relieved she doesn't have to wear these. To her, they would be a brand every bit as onerous as the one on his chest.

"Go wash the rest of that blood off," Keely says, taking the bowl of bloody water and the dirty cloth away. "You're shaking like a leaf. I want you to eat a hot meal and sit for a bit before you go back to that ship."

They're not living on the Nomad at the moment and Maeve can rest just as well in Omar's palace, but Sinbad doesn't argue. If Firouz sees them covered in blood he'll want to examine them, and the lack of any wounds will raise questions Maeve doesn't want to answer. This place is her secret, not Sinbad's, and he needs to respect her right to keep it, even from their friends.

Sinbad follows Maeve up one flight of stairs. She opens the door of an indoor washroom and stands aside for him. "I'll find you something else to put on." Her eyes assess his bloodstained form quickly. "From Antoine, I think; Niall's too small."

"Come here." He kisses her gently, hands firm on her hips. He still doesn't want to let her out of his sight. Her body trembles under his palms. "How do we fix that?" He rubs her waist with his thumb.

"I'll be fine. Don't you go getting soft on me now." She touches her mouth to his once more, then pulls from his grasp and crosses the hall, opening the door directly across from the washroom.

Sinbad knows he should be cleaning the dried blood away, but instead he follows.

This is Maeve's room. He's not particularly surprised that she has one, since she admits to visiting when they're on shore leave. He feels strange, though, stepping into this world that holds so much of her and nothing of him. He doesn't like it, doesn't like the implications of it.

Like all the rooms he's seen in this house, the walls are perfectly white, the floor polished wood. She has a large bed, bigger than his captain's bed on the Nomad, with a red down comforter. He's seen fluffy blankets filled with down before, but never used one—in his world they would probably make a man sick with heat. She has a simple wooden desk and a chair, the top of her desk and the smooth expanse of her bed littered with colored drawings—gifts from the children. Most children wouldn't know what to do with a quill or a brush, but these have been raised among books. Sinbad smiles as he examines the pictures. Most are of Maeve and her hawk, but he recognizes some scenes from past adventures—stories she must have told at some point, reinterpreted by childish hands.

"This one is good." He picks up a drawing of Doubar fighting a harpy.

Maeve is digging through the trunk at the end of her bed. She pulls out red fabric almost the same color as her blanket and stands, dropping the lid closed. "That's Declan's," she says, smiling when she sees what he's holding. "Wee monkey. He wants to be a sailor—has wanted to as long as I've known him."

Declan is the younger boy he met the other night, Sinbad suspects. The little one under the table with Mia is too small to draw like this, and he doubts the older boy wants to sail. He looked too thoughtful, more suited to a scholar's life, perhaps.

"They like you. The kids, I mean." He sees the evidence strewn around her room.

She gives him a look he can't interpret. "Why shouldn't they?"

"Kids don't like me. Laugh if you want, but they don't."

She does laugh, her mouth curling in a true smile of delight. That's lovely. He hasn't seen her smile like that in days. "You're nervous around them, is all. They pick up on that. Now go wash. I'll leave clothes for you outside the door."

He still doesn't want to leave her, but she's as safe here as she can possibly be. Rumina doesn't know where they are, after all. No one does. He puts the picture down and kisses her gently one last time before retreating.

The washroom is maybe the most fascinating place in the house so far. He's taken with the ingenious efficiency of the basin with its drain, the little tap that releases running water when he turns it. So far north the water is icy cold, but the house around him is snugly warm and he can't complain. There's also a large oval looking-glass, which doesn't really surprise him considering the obscene amount of window glass in the place. He's never seen a mirror so smooth and clear, never seen his own reflection so starkly. He scrubs the dried blood from his hands with soft white soap, and is even able to use the mirror to locate the streaks on his throat and shoulder, where Maeve's head rested earlier.

The washroom also contains a large bathing tub with a drain, a vast improvement over washing in a bucket, and what looks like an indoor latrine, which Sinbad knows the Romans had but he's hesitant about. He dries his face and hair with a cloth that feels suspiciously like expensive Indian cotton, then opens the door.

Maeve left a bundle of clothes for him, as promised. They're a little big on him and the back of the linen shirt has a slit for wings. He's not as comfortable in northern trousers as he is in his loose _sirwal_, but it doesn't really matter. They'll wash their bloody clothes as best they can, and life will go on. It's not like he's never been covered in blood before. The only part he dislikes is that it was Maeve's blood this time.

She returns a moment later, also freshly washed—there must be more than one washroom in the house. Sinbad isn't surprised, considering the size of the place. Her red linen dress makes her skin glow and brings out the gold glints in her coppery hair.

"How do you feel?" He steps close and traces a light fingertip over her face, along the vanished lines where her scratches used to be. He's relieved she won't have to wear visible scars from Rumina's attack; she bears plenty of invisible ones already.

"Hungry." She takes his hand. "Do you want to eat here, or go back to the palace?"

He's cautious. "Keely said to stay for a while."

Maeve rolls her eyes. "She's not my master, nor yours, either."

Yeah, Sinbad knows that. But getting on her good side is important to him. "We can stay. Doubar's probably still asleep, anyway."

"Why? I sent you back at a reasonable hour." She grimaces. "Sort of."

"I went to the library and talked to Dermott for a while."

Maeve pauses on her way down the stairs. She looks back at him cautiously. "Why?"

He rubs the back of his head. Telling her he went to her brother for the answers she won't give him won't go over well. "To say I was sorry for how I first treated him." It's…somewhat true.

She stills for a heartbeat, then turns fully around. Her eyes are blank but the set of her jaw is dangerous. "Antoine has a big mouth."

"He didn't tell me anything." At first, anyway. "I put two and two together, and it added up to a brother. Dermott showed me the rest."

"The rest of what?"

"His transformation." He drops down another stair step and touches her bare arm lightly. "I'm so sorry, firebrand."

Her soft mouth shifts—not so dangerous now, but still unhappy. "He shouldn't have been able to do that. Not with you."

"He's done it before. He warned me the first time we met Scratch." Maeve missed that adventure. He knows he told her about it, and it's one of Doubar's favorite tales to tell when he's drunk in a tavern, but he can't remember if he specifically told her about her brother's help.

She exhales a slow breath. "I wish he'd talked to me first."

"I think he feels the same about you bringing me to Breakwater."

She shrugs. "You're my choice. If it's a bad one, I've no one but myself to blame."

In that sentence, Sinbad sees the starkness with which she lives her life. She shoulders far too much guilt, too much blame, for things hopelessly outside her control. Her brother's condition is Rumina's fault, not Maeve's. She's put her own life on hold for years to try to free him, which is more than most siblings would do. Even now she tries to shield him, making decisions without his input so he can't take the blame if things go sour.

"Maeve." He stands a step above her on the staircase; he's not used to looking down at her as if she were Keely's height. His hands cup her shoulders, covered by the thin linen of her short sleeves. He can feel the living warmth of her and, as it seems to do more and more lately, it calms him. He doesn't really feel comfortable here yet, in this world where Maeve is fully at home and he still knows so little. But when it's just the two of them, everything feels simple. Easy. One hand slides from her shoulder, slipping under the fall of her hair, pulling her close. It's a risk—he can't read her eyes but her body tells him to be cautious. She doesn't know what she wants, so whatever he tries to provide is a gamble.

But this time the chance is worth it. She shifts into his arms, letting him hold her, and he exhales slowly as he feels the tension leak from her body. Standing like this he can tuck her head under his chin, and he likes it, likes holding her tightly, her body so warm pressed against his.

"I won't tell your secrets," he vows, one palm pressed against the bare velvet skin at the back of her neck, under her hair. She's so soft here, where her hair protects her from the harsh southern sun. So sweet. "I'll do my best not to be a bad choice."

"I know you will." She pulls away and rolls up onto her toes to kiss him. "You're a good man, Sinbad."

A sudden crash sounds from downstairs, followed by a little boy's shout: "I didn't do it!"

"Yes, you did!" another calls, accusatory.

Maeve laughs, kisses Sinbad again lightly, then turns and continues down the staircase.

"Who didn't do what?" she asks at the bottom.

The four older children, three human boys and one _sìthiche_ girl, all point wordlessly at each other.

"That's what I thought. Whatever it is, clean it up. Find Keely if you need fixing and Niall if anything else does. Go on."

"Yes, ma'am," they chorus dutifully, though they don't seem particularly subdued. Sinbad follows Maeve into the kitchen, amused.

"They listen to you." He's not sure why that surprises him, but it does.

She shrugs and lifts the lid of a pot sitting on a metal stove—he's seen such a thing in Nippon, but nowhere else. A sweet, starchy smell wafts through the room. "As much as they listen to anybody. Why?"

Sinbad watches as she dishes up two bowlfuls of gruel made from a grain he's not familiar with. "I didn't, when I was their age."

She laughs, setting crocks of honey and fresh milk on the tall kitchen worktable. "Why am I not surprised? Bring two stools, will you?"

He pulls two tall stools to the table. There's also a platter of fried sausage kept warm under a lid, as well as bread, butter, and cheese, and, incongruously, a bowl of fragrant, ripe yellow pears. He raises an eyebrow at that. "It's early spring."

"And?"

Sinbad desists. The _sìthichean_ must have some way of ripening fruit out of season, and it's not his place to pry. Besides, he was too anxious for Maeve's return to eat earlier and hasn't had the stomach for food for days, and now he's starving. This is all typical northern fare, which he recognizes from his travels, though it's not what he's used to at home. His people do not eat butter, or the aged yellow cows-milk cheese on this table, or such high, leavened bread. But he's not picky, and everything before him is fresh and of the highest quality. He eats happily, watching Maeve do the same. Keely told her to have a hot meal and rest, and he hopes that will calm the faint tremble still visible in her limbs.

The back door opens, bringing in a gust of chilly spring air along with Antoine. He doesn't look any more surprised to see them than he did last night in the nursery.

"Morning," he says, dishing up his own breakfast and drawing another stool to the table. "Keel said you had a run-in with Rumina."

Maeve swears. Sinbad doesn't understand her native tongue but between Maeve's filthy mouth and Nessa's, he's quickly learning its expletives. "She got me across the face." She mimes the magical claw marks Rumina gave her. "I basically had to turn around and come right back here."

"At least you were able to."

"That's what I said," Sinbad says. She survived. That's the important thing. He touches her bare leg lightly under the table.

Ant rises. He pours three frothy mugs of what Sinbad assumes is ale from a cask on a counter and brings them to the table. Sinbad drinks. Oh, that's good, but not what he expected. It's tangy and slightly sweet, not sour or bitter.

"Like it?" Ant flashes his lazy, crooked smile. "You make beer from wheat or barley. We make cider from apples, but it's more or less the same thing."

"Celts drink beer, too," Maeve says with a roll of her eyes. "He's just partial to cider because he brews it himself."

"I may be partial to it, too." Sinbad drinks again. He likes the warm, fuzzy feeling from Ant's whiskey but it tastes vile. This is much better.

Maeve has finished her breakfast. She pushes her bowl away and cradles her mug in her hands. "I was thinking," she says, and Sinbad watches as her shoulders stiffen. She doesn't want to say whatever she's going to say. "About the _teas_."

Antoine doesn't seem surprised. "It's in ten days."

"I know."

"You couldn't really ask for better timing." He glances at Sinbad, then back at Maeve. "Have you talked to Dermott?"

"Not yet."

"Best do it sooner rather than later. Give him time to sulk."

Maeve makes a face. "It's not really any of his business."

"It is, because you'll be disappearing on him for three days. He may not be quite so sharp, trapped within that hawk, but he'll know what that means."

Sinbad feels thoroughly lost. Again.

Maeve digs her fingers into her hair. "I don't want to fight with Keely again."

"You won't," Keely says, walking briskly into the room with her baby on her hip. Neither of her daughters look anything like her. Mia is her father in miniature, and Lily looks like Nessa. "Or I won't. Whichever." She hands the baby to Ant, who offers her a spoonful of gruel.

Maeve watches her friend warily. "You mean that?"

"Yeah." Keely stands next to her _céile_, watching as her daughter inspects the spoon. "If you're going to do this, the _teas_ is the best way."

"Sorry," Sinbad says, "but would someone mind cluing me in?" This is a term Antoine and Nessa used last night, but he has no idea what it means.

Antoine grins. "Sorry. I don't always know what Maeve has explained and what she hasn't."

"It's probably safest to assume she hasn't explained anything." Sinbad glances at the woman beside him, who makes a face at him.

"I hadn't made a decision yet," she says, "so there was nothing to explain."

"_Sìthichean _don't mate the same way humans do," Antoine says readily. "Well, that's not true. I mean, we do. But—"

"We all fuck," Keely says bluntly, overriding his fumbling explanation. "But _sìthichean_ go into heat, while humans don't. Human women have a chance of conceiving with every moon. _Sìthichean_ go into heat four times a year."

"That's the _teas_," Maeve says, still holding her mug too tightly. Her fingers are white with the force of her grip. "The heat. It's…not fun."

"Speak for yourself." Ant flashes his lazy grin. Maeve glares at him.

"It's…overwhelming, and not entirely comfortable, especially at first," Keely says, watching Maeve closely. "But I wouldn't go so far as to say it's not fun."

"But you're human." Sinbad frowns.

"The _teas_ isn't picky. Any humans in the vicinity of a _sìthiche_ going through it are affected, too." Antoine takes the spoon away from his daughter, who has smeared gruel and honey from her nose down to her pudgy belly. "It's like…an obsession. It has nothing to do with the mind. Just the body. You become nothing but need."

"For three days." Keely holds up three fingers. "It's the only time _sìthiche_ women are fertile, and it triggers fertility in nearby human women, too."

"The Breakwaters have powerful magical shields protecting them," Maeve says quietly. "_Sìthichean_ and some trusted humans gather here, where it's safe to be so vulnerable."

Now Sinbad understands. He doesn't know whether to call it magic or not, but he understands what Maeve is offering—an overwhelming experience, Keely says, and not entirely comfortable, but perhaps his best chance at getting Maeve with child quickly. Conceiving a child can take months or even years, and while he's not at all averse to trying for as long as necessary, they have a limited amount of time. He looks at her cautiously. She's quiet, still gripping her mug, shoulders tense and curled slightly inward. She doesn't want to do this, but she will. For him, she will.

He exhales slowly. "Ten days?"

"Ten days," Antoine confirms with a nod. "Drink lots of water. You'll need it." He snickers and rises, taking his sticky daughter to the sink.

Keely glares at his retreating back. She touches Maeve gently, stroking her loose curls back from her face. "You don't have to. I know the _teas_ upsets you. You want to help Sinbad, but you don't have to do it this way."

Maeve shakes her head and brushes off her friend's hands. "No. Nessa was right. It's the surest solution." She pushes her mug away and rubs her bare arms, though the kitchen is snug and warm. Sinbad wishes he could do something—anything—to help her. But if she doesn't want Keely's hands, she won't want his, either. What else can he do?

"I won't hurt you." It's beginning to sound like a meaningless platitude even to his own ears.

Both women flash him the same irritated look. It's one he's seen on Maeve too many times to count.

"Why did Rumina attack you today, anyway?" Keely leans her back against the table, watching as Antoine washes the sticky gruel from their baby. Lily shrieks her dislike of the cold, wet cloth he uses.

"I attacked her."

"Of course you did. Why was she hanging around?"

Maeve scowls. "She wants Sinbad like she wanted Dermott."

"She was watching us. Since we destroyed Skull Mountain, maybe before. She said she knew we'd go to Basra for answers." Sinbad wants more whiskey; talking about Rumina makes his head hurt.

"I was wondering about that." Antoine returns to the table with a grumpy but clean baby. He bounces her lightly as he speaks. "I'm no magic expert, but I like to think I know people. It would make sense if Rumina and Scratch were scrying, looking in on you, at least from time to time." He offers Sinbad an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, man. I'd be doing a disservice to Dermott if I didn't say something."

Sinbad isn't upset. This is something he's wondered, too—whether his enemies can watch him secretly, and if so, what they'll do with that knowledge.

Maeve and Keely exchange a solemn look. "I'm sure Rumina does," Maeve admits, "but I have no proof. I can't tell when she might be watching."

"Scrying's easy to mask," Keely agrees. She steals Ant's mug of cider and sips, then taps a finger idly against the side. "They can't see you here—not even Scratch can get through the protections on our Breakwaters. Believe me; he's tried."

Ant shudders. "His temper tantrum when he couldn't break in was fucking _terrifying_."

"Could such a spell be placed on the Nomad?" Sinbad asks.

Maeve looks doubtful. "The spells that protect the Breakwaters took the best _sìthiche_ and Celt sorcerers years to craft, and the fact that the Nomad moves around makes it even trickier."

"If you were to anchor in our harbor, we could extend our shields to your ship fairly easily, but that defeats the purpose of a ship." Keely offers him a lopsided, sympathetic grimace. "Sorry."

He waves off her apology. Antoine's brought up a vital topic, one he didn't grasp the full importance of until the _sìthiche_ voiced it. "Rumina already knows I know the Tam Lin Protocol is the only way to stop Scratch. She tried to convince me that no woman would help me—no one but her."

Maeve scowls.

Antoine's nose wrinkles. "Gross."

Keely clears her throat. "More to the point," she says, "that makes Maeve a target."

Next to Sinbad, Maeve goes still. Her eyes narrow at her friend. "I'm always a target for Rumina."

Keely's mouth flattens into a thin line and she narrows her eyes back. "You thought this would piss the witch off because she sees you as rivals."

"Well, yeah. She wanted Dermott, and then she wanted Sinbad, but they both keep turning her down."

"We're far beyond that now, firebrand." Sinbad struggles to keep the fear from his voice. "Ant's right."

Antoine's grave face belies his own worry and he raises his baby in his arms, kissing her soft curls. "Scratch will know the Tam Lin Protocol is your only option, too, and that you'll attempt it. The only question is the woman." The rest goes unvoiced: if Scratch or Rumina learn that Maeve has agreed to help Sinbad, her life is forfeit.

"There _is_ no question there," Sinbad snaps. He inhales deeply, willing himself to calm down, but he's angry at himself for not foreseeing this. Maeve's life is in danger, and it's his fault. He reaches out to touch her, unable to help himself. Cold fear freezes in his stomach, and his breakfast threatens to reemerge. Not Maeve. The demon can't have her.

"There has to be." Keely's green eyes watch him sharply. "There _has_ to be, or Maeve has to stay here, where she's protected."

"I won't do that!" Maeve's eyes flash dangerously.

"What Keel means," Antoine says, calm voice cutting through the tension in the room, "is that, to keep Maeve safe, you'll have to assume Rumina and Scratch are watching you any time you're not here. You'll have to keep quiet about your plans, and you'll have to keep them guessing." He strokes his daughter's back and kisses her hand when she pats his cheek.

"Right." Keely's nearly as tense as Maeve. "Don't talk about Maeve's choice to help you, or the possibility of her being with child. Not with anyone."

Sinbad feels even sicker. Now, in order to protect Maeve's life, and the life of the child she'll soon carry, they're going to have to lie to the rest of his crew. To Doubar. It's something he's never done before, not really, and he hates the thought. Doubar is his brother. They're always honest with each other.

"Don't fuck," Antoine adds, "unless it's so dark literally no one could see you."

"And keep other women around," Keely suggests, "to keep them guessing. I know you're a sailor but you must know some."

Sinbad nods slowly. None of this sounds remotely desirable, but he'll do anything to keep Maeve safe. Even give her up if need be, though the thought threatens to drown him.

"It would be easier and safer to stay here, love," Keely says softly, reaching over to squeeze Maeve's hand. "I know you don't want to. Believe me, I know. But it's always an option."

Maeve shakes her head, adamant. "Not unless I have to. I belong with Sinbad."

Damn right she does. He pulls her close. "They won't touch you. I swear it." Even as he says it, the vision of Maeve's bloody face, stricken with Rumina's wounds, haunts his memory. The witch has already touched her. Can he really stop it from happening again?

Her body is warm against his, warm and firm and alive. He'll keep her safe, no matter what that means, no matter how much she hates it. He has to.

* * *

_A/N: I'm so excited because I started this WIP with the teas (I don't tend to write scenes in order) and now we're almost there! Happy International Fanworks Day, too!_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I've been playing with the character of Antoine for at least six years now according to the dates on my draft documents. He was a time traveler at one point, so I have to be careful about deleting modern references from Breakwater. Then last year I watched the first season of Netflix's Chilling Adventures of Sabrina while recovering from surgery and high on painkillers, and in my head Antoine and Sabrina's cousin Ambrose got weirdly mixed up and now that's the face I picture when I write him. So if you need a face for him, there you go. :-)_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Thin sunshine coats the wet meadow in pale gold when Sinbad and Maeve step out the door. He breathes in the chill spring air, raw and damp but alive with the promise of new green things. Goosebumps prickle his arms. Maeve's remain smooth; she's used to cold weather. He carries the bundle of their bloodstained clothes under one arm and keeps the other hand lightly on the small of Maeve's back. She stopped shaking during breakfast, but he's still watchful. Rumina is older and more learned than his sorceress, and he's wary of any further aftereffects of the battle popping up.

"This sucks," she says, tossing her hair from her face with a practiced jerk of her head.

"I know." For a brief time, he was able to relax. She survived her fight with Rumina and agreed to help him, and the vise of anxiety that held his heart for days eased. He was able to eat and breathe freely once more. Then Antoine brought up the question of scrying, and Maeve's vulnerability. Now he feels more anxious than ever, not just for his soul, but also for her life. She's in danger because she agreed to help him, which means her protection is his responsibility. It's…a daunting proposition. Like the rest of his crew, she seems drawn to trouble, or it to her. Keeping it from her will be like trying to hold back the tide. "You can change your mind," he says softly. After all, she didn't realize her life was in such danger when she agreed. Neither of them did. She has every right to deny him now.

She scowls at him. "I don't do that."

"But you could. I wouldn't begrudge you." Having a baby is dangerous, and now he's asking her to take on the added burden of keeping it secret, lying to their friends. She's an evasive creature but not a dishonest one; lying does not come naturally to her. Nor to him. He's not sure how they're going to manage.

"Just stop." She touches him gently, her palm warm on his abdomen, over his borrowed shirt. He swallows hard. She has no idea what her touch does to him. "What's said is said. The only path now is forward."

That's how he tries to live his life, too—always looking forward, never back. But this is a monumental thing he's asking of her, and he won't think any less of her if she changes her mind.

The bracelet that will take them back to the Nomad gleams on her arm, the white stone iridescent in the late morning sun. He frowns and lifts her hand from his shirt, turning her wrist carefully. Glimmers of green and red flame erupt deep within the stone. "What is that? I've never seen anything like it before."

"Opal. Niall brought some back from Budapest. They're good for storing magical energy."

It looks like fire burns in the heart of the milky white stone. Sinbad rubs his thumb over its cool, polished face, then releases her arm. "I know I've said it before, but I'm sorry, firebrand. For putting you in this situation. For making you a target."

"I know."

No, she doesn't. Not really. She doesn't know how much she means to him because he doesn't know how to tell her. "I'll do whatever I can to make it easier for you. Please. Just tell me what you need."

She shakes her head slowly and rests her mouth against his shoulder for a moment. He wishes he wasn't wearing a shirt. He drops their bloodstained clothes on the doorstep and slips his arms around her, holding her close. It feels intensely personal, having her so near. Feeling her chest shift as she breathes, her soft breasts press against him. She turns her head, lifting her mouth from his shoulder, nudging his nose softly with hers. It's an invitation he accepts gladly, covering her mouth with his, kissing her gently. He has no doubt she can be roughly passionate when she chooses, but this isn't the time. Right now she needs to be handled with care, just as Cairpra warned him. She's strong and resilient, but he doesn't know her breaking point and doesn't want to accidentally find it.

She breaks the kiss, exhaling softly against his lips. "I don't need anything." Her mouth touches his once more, sweet as honey. "I just hate having to lie."

"I know." He strokes a hand down her back, red linen warm with her body heat. She's a very private person but no more natural a liar than he is. She's also terrible at controlling that fiery Celt temper of hers, so he can only hope Doubar doesn't provoke her too far. Firouz and Rongar know better, but she and Doubar clash like siblings when they disagree. He can't have her accidentally saying the wrong thing in a moment of pique. "This isn't going to be fun, sweetling. We'll have to tell the others that you refused me, and they won't like it. To keep up the farce we have to search for Talia, too." Maeve doesn't like Talia. He's not entirely sure why, unless it's just the pirate queen's untrustworthy nature, but regardless, this is going to get messy. He can feel the coming storm deep in his bones.

Maeve makes a face. "Will you kiss me, at least? When it's too dark to see?"

Oh, fuck, yes. He'll do more than kiss her. He'll do whatever she lets him. Whatever she wants. "Always." He kisses the tip of her nose, the soft, lush curve of her mouth.

"Then I'll survive." She smiles, but there's a strange wistfulness in her dark eyes and the slant of her smile. He wishes he understood. This brave girl is risking everything to help him, including her own life. He wants to be whatever she needs in return. His thumb traces her pink lips. So soft. She has the sweetest mouth he's ever kissed, the most impudent one he's ever heard.

She kisses the pad of his thumb gently before taking a step back. "Doubar will be up by now, even if he drank his way through Omar's wine cellar last night." The stone on her bracelet lights red with her magic. Her chest rises with a deep, bracing breath. "Here goes nothing." She offers him her hand.

"No. Here goes everything," he corrects as the raw northern spring morning dissolves around them.

* * *

"Sinbad!" Doubar booms.

Sinbad glances sideways at Maeve beside him. She's silent as they step through the door to their common room in Omar's palace. He sees what so many others would miss—the rigid set of her shoulders, as if she wears a heavy yoke, the tension in her jaw and throat. This is going to be a confrontation, and she knows it. She's prepared. He wishes she didn't have to be. Doubar will lose it when they tell him Maeve won't bear his child and be his champion against Scratch. After all she's agreed to, it's appallingly unfair that she has to suffer his brother's wrath as well, but they have no other choice. Not if they want to keep her safe.

"Brother." Sinbad claps Doubar on the back and receives a solid pounding in return. "Glad to see you finally up."

"I was up late last night. What can I say?" Doubar waves him off. "Besides, it's not like we're leaving today."

"Tomorrow, I think," Sinbad says, watching, preparing for his brother's good mood to sour. "We'll need to onboard supplies first, and chart a course."

Doubar frowns beneath his bushy beard. His eyes are red from the late night and too much wine; they flick quickly between Sinbad and Maeve. "Truly? You don't want to stay here, where you have a bit more, ah, privacy?"

Sinbad's jaw tenses. "No."

Doubar's frown deepens and his red eyes squint at his brother. "What are you wearing?"

That…isn't the question Sinbad expected. "My clothes need washing." He shrugs it off.

Behind him, he hears Rongar and Firouz return to the common room. Firouz is droning on about something but his voice stills as they enter. Even the absent-minded inventor can feel the tension in the air.

Doubar rounds on Maeve. "Are you still playing games?" he demands. "This isn't funny anymore, girl."

She crosses her arms over her chest and plants her feet firmly, as if he's thrown something more physical than mere words. "I never thought it was funny in the first place."

"Then stop larking! Sinbad is your captain. You owe him your compliance."

Sinbad winces. He's glad Maeve has already agreed to help him and isn't one for changing her mind. Doubar's black and white way of looking at this is more liable to piss her off than convince her to help. "Doubar—" He steps forward, hoping to turn his brother's attention back to him and keep him from attacking Maeve, who doesn't deserve his vitriol.

"It's fine, Sinbad," she says, dark eyes meeting his for a moment before turning back to his brother. It's not fine, but he stops. If she wants to handle this, that's her right. He just wishes she didn't have to. "I want Sinbad free of this curse as badly as you do, Doubar. But we've seven moons until Samhain, and this isn't a decision we can or should make lightly."

Doubar rolls his head back on his thick neck and groans with frustration. "All this womanish, wishy-washy talking isn't getting us anywhere!"

Maeve's jaw tightens. "May I remind you that rushing into the impulsive decision to trade his life for Serendib's is probably what landed Sinbad in this position to begin with?" The words grit out through clenched teeth. She's so tense she's nearly shaking again, and Sinbad can't help himself. He reaches out, cupping her bent elbow gently in his palm, skin to skin. He can give her the chance to defend herself in Doubar's eyes if she wants it, but he can't keep himself from offering this small physical comfort. Rongar sees and nudges Firouz. In the open window frame, Dermott shifts his weight from foot to foot and hisses a warning. Whether it's directed at him or his brother, Sinbad doesn't know.

Doubar ignores the bird. "May I remind _you_," he tosses back, "that Sinbad's soul is at stake?"

"What makes you think I've forgotten?" That sweet mouth of hers which Sinbad just kissed minutes ago compresses, soft lips nearly disappearing. "You're his brother, but you're not the only one who cares about him."

"Then do what's needed, girl!" Doubar stumps closer. He's a hand and a half taller than Maeve and Sinbad doesn't even want to think about how much he outweighs her, but she stands her ground. She's never backed down from him, and he doubts she ever will. "All the girls love him. Stop acting like it's such a repulsive thing he's asking. Besides, all he needs from you is a big belly. He's not asking for forever."

That's it. Sinbad steps between them before Maeve can snap. Doubar thinks he's helping but he's not, and Sinbad can't keep quiet anymore. Maeve doesn't deserve this. Hell, _he_ doesn't deserve this. "That's enough." He drops his voice into his captain's register, deep and resonant, without resorting to shouting. The authority in it silences his brother, at least momentarily.

Maeve ignores it, moving out from behind him, giving him a look he can't decipher. She's not happy, but her eyes are concealing things again. He wants to touch her, to hold her shoulders or hips in his hands; sometimes it helps him read her better. He wants to avoid a fight if possible—Maeve doesn't deserve Doubar's ire, and none of them need to waste their energy arguing amongst themselves. They have a lot to do if they're really leaving Basra tomorrow, which is beginning to seem like a better idea all the time. The Nomad is small and they can't escape each other, but Doubar feels useful when they put out to sea and that will stop his irritation with Maeve. For a while.

"Sinbad and I were just talking," Maeve says, turning her attention back to the older man. "I have…contacts at a very exclusive magical library. One that you need special permission to enter."

Dermott chitters anxiously in the window. Sinbad struggles to keep his face neutral. She's angry, but there's no way she would reveal Breakwater now, would she? She's been mad at all of them before for various reasons but never let anything accidentally slip. She may have little control over her temper, but she can curb her tongue when she chooses to.

"He and I have an appointment to look through the library in ten days. No one else is permitted to go, and I'm not making any decisions until then."

"Neither am I," Sinbad adds. A rush of relief fills him and the tension in his gut eases ever so slightly. Good girl. He hates lying, but Maeve's come up with the perfect excuse for leaving for the _teas_ without anyone being the wiser. Her story also has just enough truth to it to sound convincing. A more savvy observer might question why she hadn't turned to her contacts at such a library in the first place, but Doubar just isn't the man to raise such doubts.

Doubar scowls, though, his blunt face reddening. He's not questioning Maeve's answer, but he doesn't like it. "Why bother? You have an answer. _Books_ aren't going to get you with child."

Beside Sinbad, Maeve bristles. If she had feathers she'd be as puffy as Dermott, who bobs his head like a coiled cobra and shrieks.

"That's enough, I said." Sinbad pulls himself as tall as he can and shifts his shoulders back. He'll never be as big as his brother but he has an air of command Doubar lacks and he squares himself with the bigger man, refusing to let him target Maeve any longer. He hates lying to his brother, but he has no choice. He'll talk to Doubar again later, privately. When Maeve isn't around to be an easy mark. "The Tam Lin Protocol is only a last resort. Don't you remember Cairpra explicitly telling us so?"

Doubar is quiet, his silence sullen. He remembers, but he doesn't like it.

"Bearing a child could kill the woman I ask to do so. Moreover, it makes her a target for Scratch and Rumina. I won't do that to anyone unless I have to, especially a member of my crew." Sinbad's feet are planted firmly in truth here, and he trusts his conviction shows in his voice and on his face. He'd never put Maeve in danger like this if there were any other way. Rumina will die for forcing him to make this choice, he swears it.

Doubar still looks moody, bushy eyebrows lowered, face drooping sulkily, but his voiced protests stop. He glowers at Maeve for a moment more before sinking back in defeat. "Where do we sail, then, captain?" He doesn't wear such a dour mien well, and Sinbad trusts it will fade quickly. Doubar never sulks for long. His fear for Sinbad's soul makes him touchier than usual, that's all.

Where to sail is a good question. Sinbad feels his mind shift into captain-mode. Here he's much more comfortable, on firmer ground. He's no magician, no conjurer, and all this arguing about curses and scrying and magical _teas_ makes him uneasy. That isn't his world. The sea is.

"Maeve and I will travel by magic to the library," he says, glancing at her. Her lovely face is impassive, giving nothing away. "Until then, to hedge our bets, I want to search for Talia. If nothing else, we can catch up with an old friend." He smiles, but suspects the gesture looks as false as it feels. Talia is an inveterate rogue, and he's an honest sailor. The fact that he's fucked her a couple of times doesn't change the uncertain nature of their friendship, his inability to truly trust the pirate queen. It isn't his fault—she's not to be trusted.

"If we're leaving on the morning tide we'll need to lay in supplies," Firouz says. He seems to accept Sinbad's decision readily enough. Rongar looks somewhat more skeptical but gives no protest.

"And ask around the harbor. Someone will have seen her lately." Doubar sounds slightly less sulky.

"If she's kept her neck out of any further nooses," Maeve mutters. Sinbad can't bring himself to chide her; she's right.

"Then it's settled." Sinbad nods at his brother. "You make inquiries as to her whereabouts. Ask at the other ships in the harbor and the taverns around it." He'll sample the tavern-keepers' wares while he does, and Sinbad's perfectly content with that. A more jovial Doubar will be more open to Sinbad's order to stop targeting Maeve. He doesn't need any more clashes between them.

"We'll get supplies and round up the crew," Firouz says readily, motioning to himself and Rongar.

"Good." Sinbad nods. "I need to thank Omar for his hospitality, and apologize to him for the mess in the library."

"What mess?" Firouz looks accusingly at Maeve. He finished with the history texts over a day ago.

"It was Rumina's doing, not mine." She raises her hands, refusing to take the blame. Sinbad's fiercely glad. Rumina was looking for him; none of it was Maeve's fault at all.

"Rumina!" Doubar's remaining anger melts instantly into concern. "Are you all right?"

"We're fine." Sinbad clenches his jaw and lies. "Maeve wasn't, but Cairpra patched her up." Breakwater is her secret, not his, and he has no right to betray it, even to his brother. He lifts the bundle of their dirty clothes, visibly saturated with blood.

Maeve remains silent. The grateful shine in her dark eyes says it all.

"What happened? Are you sure you're all right?" Firouz pushes past Sinbad to get to Maeve. Sinbad lets him, exchanging an amused glance with her. He touches the back of her hand lightly before leaving her to Firouz's unneeded concern. She can handle their scientist on her own.

She could have handled Doubar on her own, too, but Sinbad just couldn't let her take his brother's undeserved anger like that. He starts for the door, handing the bundle of bloody clothing to a servant who offers to take it. They've forestalled the confrontation with their crewmates for now, but they haven't avoided it, merely postponed. When they come back from the _teas_ Maeve may well be carrying his child, and they're going to have to tell Doubar she refuses to help him.

Antoine said the fight between Maeve and Keely over leaving was apocalyptic. He doubts this lie to Doubar will go over any better.

But what can he do? Maeve must be protected. Antoine isn't wrong about that. If Scratch or Rumina can spy on them magically at any time, they can't tell anyone the truth. Keely says not even Scratch can get through the protective spells on Breakwater, but Sinbad is dubious. Dim-Dim is the best sorcerer he's ever known, one of the best in the world, and yet he was bettered by a demon—a demon that wasn't even as strong as Scratch. It makes Sinbad leery of trusting magic. He trusts his own strength more, his fists and his sword, and that means he wants Maeve with him where he can protect her, not far away on some distant coast, regardless of the magic there. To keep her he has to lie to his brother. He hates it, but so be it.

But he wasn't lying when he said he had to talk to Omar. He really does have to thank the sultan, and apologize, though the mess in the library isn't his fault. He just hopes Rumina will leave Basra in peace once he and his crew depart. Omar and his subjects don't deserve her wrath.

He and Maeve don't, either, but with them, it's personal. His jaw tightens as he continues down the corridor toward Omar's throne room. Rumina isn't going to let them be, and neither is Scratch. He feels it deep within him, as he senses a change in weather on the sea. He just hopes he's ready for whatever they try next.

* * *

Deep in the darkest recesses of the night, Sinbad feels the bed shift beside him.

He closed the shutters on his window to block the moonlight, though he doubted Maeve would come to him. But seeking sleep without her warmth is useless these days, so he did what he could to make her presence safe, and hoped.

It's too dark to see her, too dark for even the outline of her body against the shadows of the room. But he knows the scent of her skin by heart, and something in him calms instantly once her sweet warmth is beside him. No Rumina, no Scratch, no tricks. Just his Maeve.

"I didn't think you'd come." He pulls her close, welcoming the tender heat of her into his bed, against his body.

"Probably shouldn't have." She breathes the words into his skin, barely speaking at all. The thin silk she wears is warm with her body heat.

She's probably right, and the danger from Rumina and Scratch is real, but Sinbad can't bring himself to push her away. Probably he should send her back to her own chamber, even now, in the darkest hours of the night, but he can't. She fits so perfectly against him, soothes the anxiety rife within him. He's not usually an anxious man, but after learning of Scratch's claim on his soul he's becoming one. She soothes the grating, gnawing fear, the nerves that otherwise leave him unable to calm, unable to sleep.

Their library meetings are over—Omar's books hold no further answers, and the tall, open windows let in too much moonlight. They'd be too easily seen. Being caught together acting as anything other than captain and crewmember could seal her fate, and his.

"Are you okay?" He can't see the familiar red-gold shine of her hair as he strokes it back from her face, and he hates his enforced blindness. He wants to observe her eyes and the sweet curve of that lovely mouth, to see for himself that she's fully recovered from Rumina's sorcerous attack and Doubar's thoughtless words.

She tucks her head below his chin, settling in his arms, which is exactly where he wants her. "I'm fine. But I don't like not being able to talk to you."

"I know, firebrand." His hand slides down the sleek line of her back, warm silk and warmer skin. Someone standing a foot away wouldn't be able to hear them. He hopes that means anyone magically listening can't, either. They can talk in the open, but not about anything important. Not about Breakwater, or what's going to happen there in ten days.

Nine days.

He draws in a breath and shifts toward her, further onto his side. Her skin is the softest thing he thinks he's ever touched but underneath she's long, firm muscle, nothing like the southern girls he's used to. He likes it. He can feel the evidence of their roughly physical life under his hands, under her skin. She's molded and shaped by how they live as much as he is. For all the differences between them, this is something they share. He kisses her forehead. "I'm going to talk to Doubar."

"You better. That really wasn't fun."

"Understatement, firebrand." His mouth touches her temple, her cheek, needing the feel of her under his lips but also seeking to apologize, to soothe. He hates that she's now a target for Doubar's frustration on top of everything else. She doesn't deserve it, and he will not tolerate its continuance. His brother returned to the palace drunker than he anticipated and won't remember any orders he gives tonight, so Sinbad has to wait. Tomorrow, he vows. He'll sit Doubar down tomorrow and tell him that Maeve is off limits. He can take his frustration out on Sinbad if he wants, but not her.

She moves her head in the darkness, seeking blindly until she finds his mouth with hers. That sweet mouth will be the death of him. She's fire-sweet, lips plush and perfect, achingly soft. When she kisses him, he feels like he's drowning in heat—willingly so. Delightedly so. He sucks her lush lower lip into his mouth, biting down just a little, not interested in causing pain, only pleasure. Thus far the only thing she's asked of him is to kiss her in the dark, where it's safe, which he absolutely will. As much as she wants, as much as she can take. He parts from her only to drag in a shallow breath before his mouth returns to hers, tongue stroking in when her lips part, allowing the deeper kiss. The lush, wet heat of her is exquisite, so perfectly soft despite her strength. His tongue rubs sensually against hers and his hand curls on her hip, fingers flexing, tightening just slightly on that sexy curve of flesh and bone.

This is his girl. He licks her soft lower lip, loving the tiny hitch in her breath, the way her body melts against him, warm and willing, as he does. She's so responsive when he touches her like this, when it's just the two of them, no one else around to keep her tense and wary. That she trusts him so much still astounds him, especially when he remembers what she was the first time they met—such a suspicious, disdainful thing. That haughty, guarded foreigner is nowhere to be found now, in her place a warm, vibrant young woman who has become part of him. She may be a foreigner but she's no longer foreign to him, even her body slowly becoming familiar territory as his hands stroke her skin, his tongue learns her taste. He can't yet touch her as easily and casually as Antoine or Keely do. As his lips glide over hers, wet and smooth and luscious, he suspects he never will. When he puts his hands on her, it means more. It _is_ more. That she's here with him now, not just permitting but asking for his touch, returning his kisses, stroking her hands along his back, tells him the depth of her trust. She trusts him not only with her body, but with her desire, trusts him not to go bragging to his brother and friends, telling things that are none of their business. She's willingly giving herself to him, and he doesn't mean the chance to lose himself in the heat between her legs. Sex will come, but this is more than that. When she lets him hold her in the silent darkness, whether here in his bed or in the sultan's library, lets him see her human urges, her desire for touch, for taste, for intimacy, she's giving him a trust far greater than when she let go of that marble window ledge and grabbed his hand instead.

And as he kisses her, caressing that long, slender, strong body, he can feel the desire in her. She presses close, seeking touch, asking for his hands on her, putting hers on him in return. It doesn't make sense, doesn't fit with the tense, wary woman who sat in the kitchen at Breakwater explaining the _teas_. She doesn't like the _teas_—even seems a little afraid of it. But she likes his hands on her, and he can tell she loves his mouth just as much as he loves hers. He kisses her deep, slow and hot, wanting the taste of her on his tongue, the heat of her body sinking deep into his bones. His hand curls over the firm globes of her ass and he pulls her tightly to him. He half-expects her to slap the offending hand away but she doesn't, instead pressing close, those tempting breasts against his chest, her kiss hot-sweet.

Deep, needy want consumes him. He doubts she'll actually let him take her before the _teas_ and that's fine, but it doesn't erase his need. He knows she can feel it, his cock hot and heavy and hard between them. It aches—he aches for her. But he won't take her until she's ready, and she might not be until the _teas_, until she can't help herself. He understands that she won't be able to deny him then, but he's hesitant. He knows so little about what's going to happen in nine days, and it's important to him that he understands her reticence, her aversion to the _teas_. Slowly he eases his mouth from hers, hating the separation.

They're both breathing harder. Heat pools in the miniscule space between them when he loosens his vicelike grip on her body. His hand slips reluctantly from that tantalizing ass to the small of her back. He inhales slowly, taking air scented with her deep into his lungs, grounding him. Gods, he wishes he could see her. His lips touch her forehead and he breathes his words close to her ear. "The _teas_. You've…been through it before."

She nods slowly. He can't see her, but he can feel the movement of her head as it ducks against his shoulder. He strokes the silken strands of her hair even as her body tenses slightly against his, telling him to be cautious. This is a touchy subject, and he knows that. But he has to know.

"You didn't like it."

"No." She breathes the single syllable into his throat, her breath exquisitely hot and humid against his skin.

And this is why he has to ask, despite how she tenses, despite her obvious dislike of the subject. He draws her more firmly to him once more, wishing he knew a better way to soothe her. They're going to experience the _teas_ together very soon and he needs to know what about it displeases her so much. Carrying a child is an onerous task but making one shouldn't be. He's desperate not to hurt or upset her, but without more information, he doesn't know how to do that. He's never taken an unwilling woman and he never wants to, especially this one. He understands that the _teas_ will render her unable to say no. But he's unsure whether that truly makes her a willing participant, and he needs to assuage those doubts before it's too late.

"Tell me why. Please." She likes it when he says please. He whispers the words into her hair. She smells like the orange blossom soap provided by Omar, and like her own clean skin. He loves it.

She shakes her head but sets her mouth against his throat at the same time, a mixed message he can't interpret.

"Sweetling." She's teetering on the edge, about to turn from sweet to intractable, which he can't have. Not now. She's willing to touch him, willing to kiss him. Willing to sleep tangled in his arms. He can feel the desire in her body, the heat of her, the way she melts when his tongue touches her. In his experience, all of that means a woman wants him, and with any other woman, in any other situation, he wouldn't be cooling his blood and talking right now. He'd be peeling her out of that warm, thin silk and fucking her properly, as his body aches to do.

But not this girl. Not right now. His cock aches, his whole body crying out for her, but he can't. Not until he understands. "I won't take any woman who's unwilling, least of all you. I need to know." He's been turned down from time to time, though not often, and it's never bothered him before. Maeve is another story. She confuses him. Her body wants him—he knows it does. He can taste her desire when he kisses her, and he knows if she parts her legs for him she'll be slippery and slick, wet with want. He aches to know what her liquid desire tastes like, craves the scent of her thick in the air. "Do you not like sex?" Her body wants him, but she's a complicated girl. Maybe something in her mind doesn't? He knows how to please a woman and exults in doing so, but plenty of men are either clueless or don't care. He's definitely been with women who don't think they like sex until he puts his hands on them. If that's the problem here, he can fix it. He'll gladly show her how wrong she is.

She shakes her head again and a quiver of frustration rolls through her body. He doesn't understand, and he won't unless she talks to him. Her body speaks so much, but it's clearly telling a tale different from the one in her head.

"I can make it good for you." His hand shifts back to her hip, fingers curling, digging ever so slightly into that sweet flesh. He can make it so, so good for both of them, if she'll let him.

"Conceited ass." The words are a hiss, and a touch louder than probably wise. "That's not the problem, but of course you'd think so." Her body tenses, muscles bunching, gathering. He's positive she's going to climb out of the bed and leave him.

But she doesn't. Suddenly she's moving, pushing at him, turning him onto his back. Her mouth is hot and firm against his.

And oh, he was right before. She's swift to passion, her body perfectly clear about what it wants. He held a sweet, soft woman in his arms a moment ago. She's still that—still sweet, her skin achingly soft against his hands—but she's so much more, too. Her mouth meets his with hunger and he gladly gives her what she wants, kissing her harder. There are no mixed signals here, nothing to misread. She kisses him again, and he's lost in the beauty of her touch, the warmth of her skin through thin silk. His hands glide down her back as she settles on top of him, cupping her buttocks freely, though he forces his touch to remain gentle, at least for now, at least at first. She's not untouched and she clearly knows what she wants, but he has no idea what sort of experience she has, a lot or a little, good or bad. He pulls off his shirt when she untucks it, discarding the linen gladly. His blood barely cooled but it lights again instantly when her mouth touches his, hot and wanting, wet and sweet. He reaches for the hem of her short shift in the darkness, peeling her deftly out of the flimsy material. He can't see anything, and hates it. Like a blind man, his hands will have to see for him.

She presses against him, bare skin to bare skin, hot palms on his chest before one slides up to curl around the back of his neck, holding him as his mouth meets hers once more. He strokes the perfect silk-soft skin of her back, tangles his fingers in the thick copper curls he loves so much, wishing he could see her eyes light with desire, her cheeks flush with pleasure. His hands return to palm her buttocks, bare now, firm and smooth, and he squeezes, rocking the warmth of her against his straining hardness. She's supple and flexible, her hips curling as his hands guide her, pressing her into him. Gods, that feeling. The pressure of her above him, bearing down. He can feel her heat through thin linen, and he craves that warmth without the barrier of material.

Sinbad raises his chin and kisses her again, unable to resist that sweet mouth. He licks her lush bottom lip and nips it gently with his teeth before deepening the kiss, hungry for the taste of her once more. She's so soft, so willing, and he doesn't want to talk anymore. Whatever problem she has with the _teas_ has nothing to do with them here, now, and he doesn't want to chip at this conundrum any longer. Maybe they shouldn't do this away from the safety of Breakwater, but Maeve has never been good at following rules and she sets a bad example. She's a perfect puzzle of contradictions, strong but gentle, fiercely feminine. She strokes his cheek, two days' growth of stubble he hasn't yet bothered to shave. Slowly, her thumb glides over his lower lip, where her mouth has just been. Her hands are learning what her eyes have long memorized—the planes of his face, each separate texture. Rough stubble, soft lip. A small cut near his cheekbone, now scabbed over. No woman has ever touched him quite like this, and the intimacy of it startles him. Maybe it's the complete darkness, their inability to see. Maybe it's just her.

Her head moves and she breaks a kiss, her mouth shifting slightly, following the path of her fingers. Her breath is hot against his skin, mouth velvet-soft, so sweet as it brushes the firm line of his jaw, the contour of his cheekbone. He closes his eyes as her lips feather over his eyelids, petal-soft, the faintest touch. He's still half-dressed and wishes he wasn't, but she's deliciously bare, warm skin sleeker than the silk he peeled her out of. He strokes her with his rough fingers, runs his callused palms over her skin, feeling her shudder lightly when he finds particularly tender spots, memorizing the map of her body in his mind though he cannot see her. He kisses her throat, sucking softly at the pulse he finds beating swiftly there, the thrum of lifeblood flowing through her. So vibrant. So strong. He presses her into the mattress and she yields her position on top willingly, breath hitching in her throat as he finds a hard little nipple with his mouth.

"Easy, sweetling," he breathes into her skin. He'd love to make her scream for him and he has no doubt that he can, but not here, not now. They have to be so quiet, so, so careful. No one can know. He licks and suckles at her soft, perfect breasts, cupping their weight in his hands, pinching the tightly budded nipples gently. Though he wants to, he doesn't bite, unsure what might cause an unintentional cry. He suspects she may like a somewhat rougher fuck, as does he, but this isn't the time to try. Not when he can't see her reactions. Not when they have to be so quiet.

Breathing deeply, she bends her knees and slowly rocks her hips, canting her pelvis forward, opening under him. Her legs cradle his hips and he can't help the low hiss that leaves his mouth, or the way his pelvis rocks into her. Oh, gods, she's warm, so warm there, and he aches to know what she'll feel like against his fingers, wrapped around his cock.

"Don't tease me," he breathes. He wants her so badly. He didn't really expect sex from her before the _teas_, but she's naked and the way she's moving, pressing her body against him, asking him to take her—it's too much to handle. He wants to be a gentleman and let her decide, but she's playing with fire.

"I'm not teasing. I'm offering." She draws her tongue slowly across his lip. Velvet-soft, wet and warm, her mouth meets his. They breathe the same hot breath, and he abandons even the pretense of resisting. Wise or not, this is what they both want.

Moving slowly, he reaches between them. His hand blindly finds the tender inside crease of her thigh, then the liquid, molten heat of her. She whines low as two long fingers slide slowly inside her.

"Hush, firebrand," he groans, hating to quiet her, almost unable to keep his own volume down. She's tight and he's cautious; she rocks against his hand as he reaches deep. Gods, she's so hot, her inner walls plush and wet, giving as he stretches her, his fingers gentle but insistent.

"You're going to talk to me after," he whispers against her mouth. His thumb drifts lightly over her clit and she quivers. He stills, waiting. After a moment, she nods.

Done.

He strokes her clit again, slow but firmer, a reward for being agreeable. She's so wet, and he can feel her inner walls flutter as he strokes her. It feels vastly unfair that he can't see her like this, flushed and wanting beneath him. She drags in a slow breath and kisses him again. Outside, a light wind rattles the shutters.

She drops her hand and cups him through linen, then tugs at his _hijam_ until the end pulls free. Her hands are confident as she unlaces his _sirwal._ He quickly discards the last of his clothing and has to swallow a groan as she strokes him, sliding her thumb slowly over the swollen head, the weeping slit. There's no more foreplay as he jerks in her grip and replaces her hand with his own. She's ready for him, slick, open, one knee hooked over his hip. His hand guides his hot, thick length to her entrance and his hips push. Slowly, slowly, the tip enters her. He's cautious as she stretches to fit him, but her panting breaths hold no pain and her body remains soft under his, no tension, no struggle. Slowly, smoothly, he presses deep into her, joining their bodies for the first time.

She exhales a deep breath against his jaw. He's there, fully seated inside her, mouth so close to hers, breathing her breath. He's blind and she surrounds him—she's all he can feel, all he can smell, the taste of her mouth delicious on his tongue. Her body is so hot around his length, so molten-slick for him, her desire coating her folds, his cock, slick-sweet, telling him clearly how much she wants him. It feels so fucking good as he shifts against her, withdrawing the smallest fraction only to slide right back, locking their bodies together once more. Her body, her desire, the living warmth of her—she's overwhelming. After so long, all the time they spent playing games, resisting this pull, he's finally exactly where he suspects he was always supposed to be.

With her. Complete.

He exhales a shaky breath, drags in another through his mouth. The air is heavy with the scent of female arousal, his own musk. He loves it.

"I love you." He turns his head and breathes the words into her mouth. Denying it any more is pointless. She became part of him a long time ago. Refusing to admit it to himself, to her, doesn't make it any less real.

"Don't let me go." It's a plea he's never heard from her before.

"Never," he vows, and it is a vow. She's going to carry his child. He'll protect her forever. Whether they admit it or not, they're a team, a partnership. They don't function well apart anymore—hell, he can't even sleep without her warmth tucked beside him.

Slowly he moves. Like waves on the shore he reaches deep and then recedes, doing his best to be gentle, be quiet. She moves with him, an active participant, which isn't always the case with other women. He loves it. Loves how wet she is for him, the hot, slick glide of their bodies, her mouth sweet as he kisses her. Over and over, caressing that perfect, unseen skin as it heats and dampens with sweat, her body curving exquisitely, taking him, rocking smoothly with him. The pleasure is intense, stronger than he's ever known before. It slithers up his spine, so warm, almost violent in its depth, its force, the way it takes him, consuming him until he's lost to everything else. He wants to cry out, to swear, to groan and curse and hear her desperate moans and whimpers in return. All her sweet, filthy noises are denied him, but not her taste, not the wet, soft heat between her legs, gripping him tightly, deepening his pleasure. He happily drowns in it, in her.

When she comes he thrusts deep and takes her mouth, swallowing the whimper she can't quite repress, letting her climax trigger his own. His balls ache to the point of pain and contract, and his release consumes him in pulses as he spills deliciously inside her, wracked with sheer carnal bliss. Normally he tries to pull out but now with this girl he has permission to stay where he is, to seed her, and he does, coming hard, deep within her. He holds her tight against him and his eyes close. This is his girl now. He's never wanted to claim a female before, but Maeve is his. That no one can know doesn't change what their bodies ken, what his heart understands.

The moments after sex can be awkward, but not this time, not with Maeve. He turns onto his back, pulling her with him; she lets his length, soft now, slip from inside her and settles into his side. Her breaths are smooth and deep, body liquid and replete as she curls against him.

"You like sex," he breathes, kissing her forehead, her temple. Clearly—thankfully—he was wrong about that.

"Uh-huh." She stretches that sweet body and resettles, nestling into the warmth of his arms. He's not letting her go.

But they do need to talk. He strokes her sweat-damp hair away from her face and touches his mouth to hers once more, gentle, infinitely tender.

"But not the _teas_."

"No." She shakes her head, her long curls tickling as they shift against his skin. She tensed before when he tried to ask, but now she's soft and sated. He hopes that means she's willing to talk. She did promise—coerced, perhaps, but still.

"Tell me about it," he says, trying to give her enough room to explain in her own way. She hates feeling cornered, being forced to answer direct questions, and he'll do his best to accommodate that if he can. He strokes her back in the darkness, fingertips smoothing over each individual knob of spine.

She turns her head to kiss his chest. "It's…difficult to describe. It's like a sickness, especially at first. A fever. It hurts." Her mouth tenses against his skin; he can't see but he thinks she's frowning. "It hits women first, and hardest. I don't know. It's different for men. You should ask Antoine or Niall."

Except he doesn't really care so much how it will feel for him. What he wants to know is how to keep the _teas_ from being a bad experience for her. "You're amazing," he tells her, wishing he had better words to say what he means. His thumb glides over her well-kissed mouth, those beautiful, plush lips he loves. "I love your passion." He can feel the heat under his fingertips when her face flushes. "I don't want to lose that. I don't like the thought of taking you if you won't like it."

She shakes her head on his shoulder, but her body remains soft against his. "I can't explain. You haven't felt it. It's just…it's like being forced. Like it's not really you doing it, not really you the other person wants."

His hands trace slow patterns on her skin, soothing and soft. "That sounds like being drugged or ensorcelled."

"Very," she agrees. "Some people like that. I don't."

What she says is no more than truth. People take potions purported to enhance sex all the time. He's never felt the need to, and it's clear she doesn't like how the _teas_ makes her feel.

_Sìthichean _go through the _teas_ four times a year, and any humans in the vicinity get pulled along for the ride. Maeve lived with Antoine and Nessa for a time. He wonders how she coped, but not enough to ask. Whispered conversations are awkward, he's quickly learning, and he doesn't want to ruin the soft after-sex languor of her body, the delicious liquid just-fucked sweetness tucked loosely against him. Not for anything. He'll pester her with nosy questions another time. "It all seems like a very complicated way of making babies. And awkward."

She pokes his side. "Human women bleed every moon. You think that's not awkward?"

"Fair enough." He holds her tighter and shuts his mouth. When a woman mentions that, it's time to stop asking questions.

She readjusts her body against his, sliding a leg lazily over his hip. "Sleep, captain. I have to be gone before dawn."

He knows, and he hates it. He wants to sleep with her warmth beside him, then love her again in the thin morning light. Wants to see that gorgeous skin, not just feel it. He won't risk their lives for a glimpse of her, but the enforced darkness and silence still sours him. "Sleep, then, firebrand. Dawn's not far off."

Nine days.


	8. Chapter 8

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad inhales a deep breath of salt wind. Being on the open ocean hasn't improved only Doubar's mood—everyone seems to be feeling better since leaving Basra. For him, it's the steady reassurance of the ocean, his ship shifting beneath him, rocked by the waves and pulled by the wind. He's at peace here, hot sun beating on his skin, smells of brine and tar and wet wood strong but comforting. He likes the creature comforts of southern cities like Basra, but he prefers his little ship on the open sea to anyplace else in the world.

He suspects his crew feels slightly differently, or at least some of them. Doubar is happiest when he's either carousing or of use to others. Sitting still in Basra, tense and unable to help with the search for information, soured him. He seems recovered now, laughing with Rongar as they adjust the mainsail, hauling at the lines as the wind gusts stronger. Partially this is the comfort he takes in being useful and busy, and part of it, Sinbad suspects, is the promise that they have a plan. Doubar does not like Maeve's refusal to make a decision, but he's accepted the excuse that they have a better library to check and they're out to find Talia as a backup. It isn't what his brother wants to hear, but any plan is better than none, and the big man is content. For now.

Sinbad's jaw tightens. Having to lie to his crew, to his brother, causes anxiety to thrum through him in a way it never has before—not too much, not an overwhelming amount, but always there, insidious and sick, catching him in his quiet moments, refusing him true calm. He's an honest man, and the guilt of having to do this gnaws at him. Only with Maeve next to him does it cease, silencing his fears.

She's with Firouz now, her deft fingers assisting him with something tiny and fiddly he's messing with. Sinbad watches as they work, the inventor pointing, Maeve helping him adjust miniscule bits of metal and wire. Her copper curls float around her head as the wind shifts direction, gusting, tugging at the thin white linen of her sleeves, her skirt. A slight, sweet ache pangs deep in his chest. He always wants to touch her now that he's allowed to, now that he knows what that lovely body feels like pressed tightly against his own. He knows perfectly well that he can't—not here, not in the light—but he also can't banish the yearning ache for her. She's his now, all of her, but he can't have everything he wants at once. He can look at her in the light, admiring how the sun gleams on those long, sleek legs, the lush curve of her lips as she smiles at something Firouz says, but he can't touch her. He can only do that in darkness so total his eyes become useless, hands stroking what his gaze has long memorized, unable to see and caress at the same time. It's…an odd sort of torture, frustrating and crazy-making. He can have everything he wants, but never at the same time.

Not for a few more days, at least.

He's considered asking her to slip away with him to Breakwater, where he can love her properly in the light, without the need for silence. He can't quite bring himself to make the request. She's tense, on edge, growing more anxious as each day passes, bringing them closer to the _teas_. She's already agreed to do so much for him—to make and bear a child she never wanted, and to use the _teas_ to conceive it—and he can't ask her for anything more, he just can't.

She's come to him every night since leaving Basra, in the full dark below deck, slipping silently across the galley from her tiny closet of a cabin to his captain's quarters. He fucks her quietly, desperately, wishing he didn't have to silence her sweet noises, then holds her as close as he can for a few hours' sleep. All too soon she has to creep back across they galley, before the grey light of false dawn surrounds the Nomad, before anyone is the wiser. He loves her and will take what he can get, but he hates it all the same—the lies, the enforced separation each morning. They're not getting much sleep, either, considering how late she has to come to him, how early she has to leave, and the not-sleeping they do in between. They're young and healthy and it hasn't affected them thus far, but he worries about when she's with child. He knows nothing about pregnant women or how to care for one, but he assumes she'll need more sleep and more food, at the very least. Hiding a pregnancy from their crewmates will be difficult, but the only other choice is to leave her at Breakwater, which Maeve is unwilling to consider. She's adamant that she won't be left behind, and he's not about to risk that confrontation unless he absolutely has to.

"Little brother."

Sinbad adjusts the tiller slightly, correcting their course as the wind shifts. He watches as Doubar heaves his bulk up the aft steps toward him.

"That girl."

Not this again. "If you're going to complain to me about her choice, I don't want to hear it."

"Her lack of choice, you mean. How can you stand here so unconcerned, with your soul at stake?"

"I'm not unconcerned." Very little else has occupied his mind since learning the meaning of the brand seared into his skin. He's so sick of it, and sick of conversations like these. He aches for a monster to fight, a demon who will show his face, unlike Scratch.

"Well, what are you, then?"

"Waiting." It's as true an answer as he can give Doubar right now.

"Sinbad." Doubar tips his head back, leaning his face into the wind. His shoulders rise and fall as he takes in a deep breath. He's slower to anger than Maeve, but worse at controlling it once it lights. Sinbad watches his brother struggle to keep his frustration from swelling. "This isn't the time for waiting. Surely you can see that."

"What I see," Sinbad says, choosing his words carefully, "is a situation created by Rumina and Scratch. Not Maeve. Point your anger at them. She didn't do this."

"But she's stringing you along," Doubar insists. "Playing with you, and I don't like it."

Maeve's head turns. She glances their way as if she can sense the topic of their conversation. Maybe she can. Her brown eyes meet his for a moment before she turns back to Firouz.

"Here's how I see it." Sinbad shoves his own frustration down. Doubar is protective—he always has been. It's love speaking, and he has to remember that. "We all have choices, even when it seems like we don't. Right now I could choose to accept Scratch's mark—after all, I don't think Rumina had much of a claim to begin with, and if she had no right to sell my soul, Scratch won't be able to take it."

"That's not a risk I'm willing to take, even if you are," Doubar growls.

"Hold on, I'm not finished. I could also choose to accept that the Tam Lin Protocol is the only way to fight Scratch. Or I could keep looking for a better answer."

"In that library Maeve spoke of." Doubar clears his throat roughly and hocks over the side of the ship. "You won't find anything, Sinbad. I'm no scholar, and even I know that."

Yeah, he knows. "You're probably right," he allows. He has to be so, so careful with his words. Doubar knows him better than anyone else. Better than Dim-Dim. Better than Maeve. If he's not cautious his brother will sense a lie, and that could cause disaster for them all. "But Maeve wants to check before making her decision, and that's her right. It's also not a bad idea. She wasn't wrong when she said being rash probably caused this mess to begin with."

Doubar's face crinkles in a horrible grimace, his features almost lost in his bushy beard and eyebrows. He hates the constant reminders to think before acting. This time it's Sinbad's reckless action causing trouble and not his own, but even so. "You don't have time to waste, little brother."

"Nor am I wasting it." Sinbad's voice deepens, a flavor of iron settling into it. Doubar is his brother, but he's also a member of the crew. He will not tolerate the big man attacking Maeve anymore. He hates ordering his brother, but he will if he has to. "We have seven moons until Samhain."

"And it could take longer than that to get her with child," Doubar snaps. "There's no science to it. Even a sorcerer can't wave a magic wand and make a child happen!"

"I will not force her." The iron in his voice turns to cold steel. This is absolute truth, the truest thing he knows.

Doubar swears. He tries to cross his arms over his chest, but he's barrel-shaped and his arms just aren't long enough. He brings them back down with an impatient jerk. Silence engulfs them.

Gods, Sinbad hates this. He wishes he could take Doubar, Rongar, and Firouz to Breakwater, where it's safe to talk, and explain everything. That would ease much of the tension in his crew. Doubar would stop being sullen, and Rongar would stop watching him with that solemn expression, as if he knows far more than he ought to. They could all work together to protect Maeve, especially once she's with child. But this dream is impossible. She doesn't like even him knowing about her people, and she will not share them with anyone else. He doesn't have to ask to know this. Antoine and Nessa are her siblings, or as good as, and she'll gladly die protecting them and the little girls. Her sword is of no use to them so far away, only her silence, and it's a silence she's broken just once—just for him. No one else

"Why does it have to be a woman currently with child?" Doubar gripes. "You probably already have children at a few ports. Why not their mothers? Why so specific?"

He's talking rhetorically, not expecting an answer. Still, Sinbad feels a little sick. He knows that, when considered from a purely mathematical perspective, he probably does have a child or two already. Doubar likely does, too. It's not something he's particularly proud of or wants to think about, just a…well, a side effect of a sailor's life. Before meeting Antoine, he gave it no thought at all. The way the _sìthiche_ adores his daughters, though, is something he's never considered before. In his world, fathers do not tend to their young children. They take their sons to mold and teach once the boys are old enough to obey, often with hands of steel. They have little direct contact with their daughters at all. Sinbad doesn't know if his own father would have been the same, or perhaps more like the men of Breakwater, who actively participate in their children's rearing. He'd like to know, but is unsure how to ask the question of Doubar.

For the first time, he also wonders what Maeve will expect of him once she gives birth, assuming all goes well. Is this a Celt or _sìthichean_ cultural thing? Will she want his help parenting a young child? In his world this is something men do not do, and he doesn't know how. His own upbringing by a brother and a tutor was unconventional but he remembers his friends' fathers, rough and curt, tired from long days in the fields or on the docks. He remembers how the boys gravitated toward their fathers, seeking attention, seeking approval, and were most often met with orders to do this or that task, or a sharp cuff. He…doesn't want to be that. He's never considered what sort of father he might be before, but now, comparing what he's seen of the men at Breakwater with memories of his own childhood, he knows what he doesn't want. He never wants a child of his to fear him.

"What was our father like?" he asks abruptly, before realizing he's going to. "Did he spend time with you?"

Doubar's frustration disappears. His grimace melts into a wistful smile. "Oh, aye. He was a good man. A big man, like me." He chuckles. "Well, maybe not quite so big. You're our mother all over again. Even have her eyes. He loved her like no other, you know. Like I've never seen since." He sighs. "He would take me to markets and jewel dealers wherever we went, looking for stones just the color of her eyes. Never did find exactly what he wanted. No sapphire or lapis lazuli was ever quite right."

"He was a good father?"

"The best." Doubar rubs his rough, bristly cheeks. "But, then, that's memory." His grey eyes appraise his brother. "Thinking about your own coming son, eh?"

How could he not? "I never wanted children."

"I know it." Doubar stretches his back and rubs his ample belly. "You're thinking to keep him, though. I can see it."

There's no question about keeping the child, because he's keeping the mother no matter what Doubar says. He loves her. Maybe she won't marry him, but she's still his. "I never had a father. I don't know how to be one." He only knows what he doesn't want to be, not how to keep from becoming it.

"Well." Doubar squints into the sun and shakes his head slightly. "Considering the girls you have to choose from, you're going to have to step up. Neither Maeve nor Talia seem much like the mothering type to me."

Sinbad does his best not to bristle. On the surface, Doubar is right. Maeve is fire—quick to anger, quick to fight. She's a warrior, whether by birth or circumstance. Only those who truly know her, as he's coming to, see the gentler side to her, the hidden sweetness behind that tough-girl exterior. He remembers so clearly how tenderly she held Lily, the perfect softness of her arms despite the tension in the rest of her. He's witnessed her easy interactions with the children of Breakwater, and their gifts to her, obvious symbols of how much they adore her. She'll make a good mother, he's sure of it.

"You may be surprised," he says, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to Maeve's figure, still busy with Firouz and his invention.

"I'm surprised every day." Doubar stretches slowly. The air's getting hotter and it's almost time for their midday meal and a brief rest while the sun is at its zenith. "But not by those two hellcats. Talia'd sell your son as soon as suckle him, and I told you, Maeve won't stay. No. Best keep him yourself, after this is all over, so you know he's safe and well cared for."

That's unkind, even for Doubar, even of Talia. She wouldn't sell her own child. Sinbad thinks. He hopes. And anyway, it doesn't matter. Talia won't be carrying his child. Maeve will. He just has to ensure that no one else finds out.

* * *

"I can't be here tomorrow night."

He tightens his arms around her. She's sweat-damp and soft, liquid-sweet, just-fucked. "Why not?" He's fighting her on this one—she can't leave him for a whole night without a good reason.

She touches her soft mouth to his throat, lips moving against his skin as she whispers. "The _teas_. It will work better if I spend tomorrow night at Breakwater, near Antoine and Nessa. I'll come back for duty the next day, then take you with me near sundown."

He forces himself to consider her plan instead of outright rejecting it, though in reality he has no intention of letting her go. Not a whole night without him. "I can't sleep without you."

"You'll live." She kisses his mouth, still hot and wanting. He'll be up for another round in a minute if she keeps kissing him like that.

"Take me with you."

She nips his lower lip gently. "You don't need any extra exposure."

"But I need you." He'll survive a night without her, sure, but he doesn't want to.

"No." The word is gentle but firm. She's serious. "You have no good excuse to go missing. You can claim I'm in my cabin studying and no one will question it. You're another story."

He's the captain. Leaving his ship for three days for the _teas_ is already pushing it; he can't disappear the night before, too. She's right, but he hates it. "Love me again now, then." He rolls them over, feeling the soft shaking of her body as she laughs silently into his shoulder. He aches to hear that low, sweet chuckle. This enforced silence isn't fair to either of them.

"I thought you wanted to sleep." Her hands cup his cheeks as she surrenders to his kiss, to the pressure of his body atop hers.

"Changed my mind." His mouth captures hers again. She tastes like the sea, like sun and salt wind, and he loves it. He sucks on that sweet, lush lower lip, hand covering a breast as he enters her again. She sucks in a deep breath, struggling to stay quiet. Soon she won't have to. For three days at Breakwater, she'll be his—all of her, noises included. He suspects she's a vocal lover when allowed, and he can't wait to hear and see all of her.

"Harder," she pleads, a pained whisper, and bites his earlobe. Anything—everything she wants. He drops his hand from her breast to her clit, stroking with his thumb as he thrusts harder into her, feeling her tight heat clench around him. She's exquisite, not only willing but wet and wanting, taking her pleasure and giving his. Her hips jerk up into his, taking him deep, accepting his need, revealing her own.

He can make this last if he chooses, especially after already coming once tonight, but they need to sleep, especially if she won't be here tomorrow. He pets her clit with smooth, circular strokes, gliding on the liquid heat of her desire. She breathes into his mouth, soft little pants, and her short nails dig into the skin of his back, the meat of his muscle. He loves the tiny pinpricks of pain, loves the fact that he'll wear the little wounds of her pleasure tomorrow, though under his clothes no one will see. He strokes her clit just a little harder and presses deep.

She comes around him, body writhing deliciously, perfectly, and he lets her release trigger his own. Sex with her is never awkward—it's like his body has always known hers, how to touch and where to stroke, just the way she likes to be kissed, what will keep her just on the edge or send her over it into bliss. He takes his own pleasure, losing himself in the wet heat between her legs, spilling deep within her. It's so much more fulfilling than having to rush to pull out, and he stays where he is once he's seeded her, wrapping his arms under her shoulders, holding her body tightly to his. She tucks her head against his throat, still panting slightly, softly, surrounding him in her blissful warmth. So sweet.

"We don't have to do it," he whispers, holding her close. Her legs cradle his hips; his length is still within her. "The _teas_. We can continue just like this." They're both young and healthy; there's no reason he can't get her pregnant the normal human way. Hell, there's every possibility she could be already.

Her mouth touches his throat, his jaw. She shifts in his arms and he reluctantly disengages, slipping from her, turning to his back so she can curl against him the way she likes. "We could," she agrees. "But we have a much better chance with the _teas_."

"But you don't like it."

"I also don't like Talia." She shrugs; he feels the shift of her shoulders against his skin. "I'll live, Sinbad."

He knows she will. She's the strongest woman he's ever met. But he wants more than that—wants things he can't put into words, even in his own head, let alone tell her. Most of all, more than anything else, he doesn't want to hurt her. Seeking Talia is already doing that. He fears the _teas_ will only make it worse.

"Sweetling, when you said you were an unwanted child, did you mean because you weren't a boy?"

She stills in his arms. He holds the steady warmth of her, letting her consider answering in her own time. She doesn't like direct questions about her past, and he understands that. But there's so much he doesn't know about this girl, and at times like these it feels vitally important. They're going to share a child soon, if all goes well, though he knows she doesn't want to. What he doesn't know is why.

Her thumb rubs his chest softly, thoughtfully. He takes heart from that slow, gentle caress. She's not shutting down, not pulling away—not yet. He may be her captain but he has to be careful with her, just as Cairpra said. He can't demand answers from her. She's deeply scarred internally, the damage invisible but there, hidden deep where Keely's healing touch can't penetrate. He has to respect that, as he'd respect a crewmember with a missing eye or limb. There are questions she may never be able to answer, walls she may never be able to break down, even for him. That she's willing to try humbles him.

"It…didn't help," she says finally. "Celts don't hate girls as much as your people do, but boys are definitely preferred."

He winces a little. Hate is a strong term, but he remains quiet. This isn't the time to argue semantics.

She's silent for a long time. He knows she hasn't drifted to sleep, but he doubts she'll continue. This wall is perhaps too high to breach right now, and if so, he has to accept that. He supposes he could ask Dermott, but he feels a little guilty going to her brother for the answers she won't give. Besides, the hawk's been angry with him lately—Sinbad suspects he knows Maeve's been sleeping with him despite their caution. There's a bond between the two he doesn't understand, something greater than most brothers and sisters share. Maybe it's because he raised her, or the trauma of his transformation. Whatever the case, Sinbad doesn't want to interfere. Maeve respects his bond with Doubar, and he needs to do the same for her and Dermott.

Finally she draws breath. Her body shifts slowly, her head tucking further into the curve of his neck, as if seeking solace. This isn't normal for her—when she's upset she isolates herself instead of seeking comfort in others. But she's warm and solid in his arms, pulling herself closer, not withdrawing. He wraps them both up in his blanket though the night is almost uncomfortably warm and strokes her hair, cupping the back of her silky head in one hand, holding her body tight against him with the other. If she wants comfort, he'll gladly give it.

"He thought I wasn't his. Dermott doesn't know why. He just did." Her words are no more than warm breath on his throat, sentences short and clipped. It's okay. Whatever she can give, he'll take it. "I was younger than Mia when he killed her. I was there. It's…the only clear memory I have of them." She blinks; those long eyelashes brush his skin and he shivers, pulling her tighter against him. "When Dermott came home he got me out and we left. Nobody would have blamed him for leaving me and going alone, but he didn't."

Nobody would have blamed Doubar for saving himself when the storm that killed their parents bore down on them, either. But he didn't. He saved Sinbad despite the danger to himself, and saw them safely home to Baghdad, where Dim-Dim, the caliph's trusted advisor, took them in. _The wounds in her heart are as deep as the wounds in yours_, Dim-Dim told him once. Now, at last, he understands.

"Sweetling."

Her eyes remain dry, no telltale drip of a tear on his skin. She starts to clear her throat but stops immediately, silencing the sound. "It's not an uncommon story," she says, attempting to shrug it off. Sinbad can feel those invisible walls going up once more. It's okay. It's fine. He has the answer he needs. "The only unusual part was Dermott." Her unwavering, uncompromising love for her older brother is clear even in her whisper. Sinbad can understand. Dermott's bravery and loyalty stagger him. A young child himself, perhaps the age of Niall's eldest, he had the courage not only to leave his beast of a father, but to take his tiny sister with him. To care for her, and at some point Keely as well. Somehow, he kept them all alive and in one piece, Rumina's curse notwithstanding. His respect for her brother soars.

And he's never hated a mortal man as much as he hates their father. "Can I kill him? Let me kill him." He wants to tear the man to pieces. Slowly. Men beat on women, and that's an uncomfortable fact he can't deny, but to kill a mother in front of her small child is beyond the pale.

"Do you know how long it would take to get to Eire?" Her whisper is almost a hiss.

Not exactly, but Firouz can figure it out. "Moons."

"Right. We are not sailing so ridiculously far just so you can kill a man I don't even really remember. Besides, my island is always being invaded. By Christians, by Vikings, by everyone. He's probably long dead."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"You're not even curious?"

"No."

"But—"

She silences him with her mouth on his. He can't argue with her lips and he abandons the attempt, kissing her instead. His hand tangles gently in her hair, those soft, loose red curls he loves. He wonders who she takes after, and hopes it's her mother.

"You men." She sighs softly against his mouth. "Why do you assume killing someone will fix everything?"

"Often it does." In his experience, anyway. Also, he's good at it. He takes no delight in ending lives, but he does take solace in righting wrongs, and often killing is unfortunately the only way.

"What would killing him fix? It won't bring her back. It won't undo what's been done."

"You want to kill Rumina." She's crossed half a world hunting the evil sorceress.

"I want to free my brother. If the answer was befriending Rumina, I'd do that instead. It isn't."

Yeah, he gets it. She'll do whatever it takes to get Dermott back, just as he would if Doubar was the one under a curse. She'll break the spell if she can, but killing the spellcaster is the surer option. Still, he'd feel an immense amount of satisfaction tearing her father to pieces. Maybe after Dermott is free he'll agree to a little northern trip. She may not feel particularly vindictive in this case, but her brother might.

"Thank you, firebrand." He searches blindly for her mouth and kisses the corner of it.

"I love you, Sinbad."

He swallows hard. He can feel her care for him when she touches him, but this is the first time she's actually said it. "I love you, too, sweetling."

"I'm not sweet." She nestles against him, cheek to his chest, tucking herself more fully under the blanket. In this moment she's not only incredibly sweet, but adorable as well. Not that he'll ever tell her so. She might kill him.

"You're an acquired taste. Doesn't mean you're not sweet." He kisses her silky hair. "Are you really leaving me alone tomorrow night?"

"Yes. It's for the best." She exhales a slow breath, her body relaxing, melting once more into his. "But I'm here now."

Yes, she's here now. And he'll put all his energy into making sure she never leaves him again.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: This scene wasn't ready to post with the last chapter, so here's a little mini-installment before the _teas. _I've also fucked so badly with historical dates here that I'm just offering a blanket apology from this point forward to anyone who cares about historical accuracy._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad offers to take the night watch. Without Maeve he won't sleep anyway, and there's no point in two men spending a night awake if they don't both have to.

The journey to find Talia has been quiet thus far, but then, they're only nine days out of Basra. Sinbad is positive either Rumina, Scratch, or both together will try something, he just doesn't know when. He wishes he could spy on Rumina as easily as he's sure she spies on him. Maeve is capable of doing so but not yet able to cloak the spell; Rumina would know immediately, which defeats the purpose of spying. It's fine, he tells himself again, as he leans into the railing of his ship, listening to the quiet, comforting creaks and pops of the Nomad under sail. He's made it this far without the ability to scry. He's never relied on magic before, and despite loving a sorceress, he never wants to. Her magic is a welcome addition to his arsenal but can't replace his fists, his sword, or his quick mind. These he relies upon above all else.

The other sailors in Basra, when questioned, placed Talia's last sighting all over the map, but the largest number of reports claimed she was in the Mediterranean, pestering the little islands around Cyprus. This sounds very like Talia, so they're heading south around the Arabian peninsula, then up the Nile to the Mediterranean. It's a route he's taken countless times, so many he could sail it in his sleep, dotted with rich trading ports. Adventuring is in his blood but it doesn't keep his men fed, so they've onboarded cargo to be delivered to Cairo on their way to find Talia.

A soft sound reaches his ears, like the muffled clink of metal touching wood. Sinbad straightens, reaching for his saber. On the open sea they should be safe, but he's learned the hard way not to trust what ought to be.

"At ease, captain. Apologies. It's just me." The voice is low, words quiet. After a moment, Niall's compact form appears from the shadows.

Sinbad relaxes, and his hand slips from the hilt of his sword. "You all have got to stop appearing from out of nowhere like that."

A single lantern hangs over the tiller, holding three fat candles—enough light so any other ships in the area will not run into them, even on a moonless night. Niall steps into the dim golden light. He holds his youngest son cradled in one muscled arm, the other hand holding a mug and a rag. He tips his head to the side, considering. "I don't know how to build a warning into the transport spell. There may be a way."

"Well, if you keep just popping in and out like that, someone's going to see you."

Niall shrugs. "I'm fully human. There's no danger."

There's every danger, even though he's no _sìthiche_. "We're on the sea. You'll be taken for a stowaway, and my men will start asking questions Maeve doesn't want to answer."

The smaller man grimaces. "Noted. I know Maeve sails with you, but I forget sometimes what that means." His son moves in his arms and fusses. Niall sets the mug on the baby's blanketed stomach, dips the corner of a rag in, and offers the dripping cloth. The boy takes it readily.

Sinbad watches, frowning slightly. He didn't realize fatherhood meant sharing nursing duty as well, even for the men of Breakwater. "How old is he?"

"Just about four moons." Niall dips the cloth again and laughs at the look on Sinbad's face. "No worries, man. I don't do this on the regular, but the girls spend the night before the _teas_ together and won't be disturbed for anything."

"I…see."

"Since I was up, I came to check on you. Antoine's girls are with the women, so he gets a full night's sleep for once." Niall glances around them, at the ship cloaked in night, lit only by stars and the single lantern. "You should sleep, too, but I suspected you wouldn't. You're a worrier, like me. Not like Ant."

Sinbad hasn't spent much time around Niall. He's about Firouz's height, somewhat wiry, and wears a touch of black hair on the point of his chin. Like his _chéile_ his features are sharp and angular, but his dark eyes are as soft as his voice. "You're no Celt."

"Only by inclination. By adoption, you could say." He smiles. "I was raised in the Roman monastery at Lindisfarne, then sent to the mother church in Rome to train as an _indagator_."

Sinbad blinks. "A witch hunter."

"Aye. Or fairy hunter, in this case. The church knows they still exist, and wants desperately to exterminate them."

Sinbad's jaw tightens. Maeve refused to leave the ship the single time they docked in once-mighty Rome, and now he suspects he knows why. The pope and his followers have never been very good at live-and-let-live.

"Seems like their teachings didn't take."

"Not very well," Niall agrees. "Not after I met Wren, and saw for myself the pain the church inflicted on innocent people. Her clan was massacred, those who were caught and refused to convert put to the torch. She's lucky she survived. Her family didn't."

Sinbad isn't sure what to say. It's an all too common story throughout the whole world, not just the areas where Rome's church holds sway. Conquest is brutal, whether for religion or politics, and the leaders who make the decisions are never the ones to pay the blood price. The pope is far richer than Omar and lives a life of sheltered opulence, Sinbad is certain, while his soldiers and innocent villagers die for a cause they probably don't even really understand.

But Wren survived—like his Maeve and the rest of her family at Breakwater, she's strong. He doesn't know her well, but she's still alive despite the odds, and has borne five healthy sons in quick succession besides. No woman who can do that is weak.

"Anyway, I came to see how you were holding up. We're…a lot to take in, especially all at once. I get it." He sets the mug down and lifts the baby carefully to his shoulder, rubbing his back. All of his sons have his dark hair but their mother's Celtic skin, and the baby stands out as clearly as Maeve does in the starlight. "I was raised in a monastery and didn't speak a word of Gaeilge when I was sent to Eire. We had to communicate in Latin, and shit, everybody hated that." He laughs softly. "Trust me when I say I get it."

Sinbad can only imagine how much Maeve's proud people would have hated having to converse in their invaders' tongue. As a sailor he has to know enough of the dominant mercantile languages to conduct business—primarily Arabic, Latin, and Persian—but he's often somewhat adrift when they visit backwater communities with their own unique languages or dialects. He's beyond grateful that Maeve's people are able to speak with him in his own language. Niall will have picked it up in Rome, if not before, though where the rest of them learned it is anyone's guess.

"I'm fine," he says. "I've been at sea since I was just a little older than your eldest boy, I think. I'm used to strange cultures and tongues."

"Brandon is eight."

"I was ten, so a little older."

Niall peers at the baby on his shoulder. "He's asleep. Do you want to hold him?"

Sinbad hesitates. No, he doesn't, but he also doesn't want to insult the man.

Niall snorts and hands the baby over. "You look like I felt the first time Wren told me she was pregnant. I was raised by monks, so I was even worse off than you."

"Were you a monk?" Sinbad cradles the infant awkwardly in his arms.

"Oh, aye. A very, very poor one." He adjusts Sinbad's grip on the baby with a deft, gentle touch. "Not like that, like this. When they're newborn they can't support that big head on their wee necks, so you have to do it for them. He mostly can now, but on his back he's still a bit clumsy."

"What's his name?"

"Connall. I hope she runs out of boys before we run out of names for them." He tosses the rag over his shoulder.

"You do have a lot."

"I want a girl and Wren doesn't mind being pregnant, so we keep trying. So far she's only thrown boys, but she's never miscarried either, so I'm content." He smiles.

To have so many children with no miscarriages is surprising; even Sinbad knows that. "Ant's girls will have an army to guard them at the rate you're going." He looks at the baby sleeping in his arms. He has no idea how big a child of four moons should be, if this one is big or small. He's round and well-fed, somewhat heavier than he looks. He has very little hair, just a few dark, feathery wisps on the crown of his head.

Niall laughs. "You're not wrong. The rate's steady, though. Every self-respecting Celt woman knows how to prevent pregnancy. Keely's mother was a midwife, I'm told, and said it was important to wait a year between babies, so Wren does."

"Keely's mother?"

"Aye."

No one has ever mentioned such a person before. "What happened to her?"

"She died the night Maeve and Keely met." For the first time, Niall looks nervous. "It's not my story to tell. But have no fear, captain. Maeve and your little one will have the best care possible. Keel isn't exactly the most nurturing of women, you may have noticed, but she was determined to learn her mother's trade and more. She helped Wren with all but her first birth, and ministers to the surrounding villages as well."

That's a relief to Sinbad. They can stay closer to shore, as Firouz suggested earlier, closer to cities where Maeve can seek the advice of a midwife, but with her bracelet she has access to Keely whenever she might need, no matter where the Nomad is.

The baby in his arms shifts in its sleep, one little hand rising to rub a closed eye. He isn't crying, and Sinbad feels his own body start to relax. Niall's coloring is similar to his own, and he wonders if this is what his child with Maeve will look like—her fair northern skin and his dark hair. He wouldn't mind. She's gorgeous and he's no slouch, so their child will be beautiful regardless.

"Do you have questions?" Niall's soft voice is gentle in the warm night. "I felt like I was going crazy, my first _teas_. I'd been raised to hunt fairies and then suddenly I was mating with them. Well, not _with_ them. But—"

"I get it." Sinbad has to laugh. "I don't really care what it will be like, to be honest. Not for me. But Maeve doesn't like it, and I hate that."

"She doesn't?" Niall frowns. "I wonder why?"

"She says it feels like being drugged? Something like that. I don't know." Until he feels it for himself, he won't know for sure what she means.

"That makes some sense. Everyone gets testy just before it hits. The girls don't feel well—it's like a fever. There's a reason _sìthichean_ call it the heat. As with a fever, the women hurt. They're too hot and their heads get muddled. Confused. Maeve may fight you at first, not understanding what's going on. Wren bit me our first _teas_." He draws back his sleeve, showing Sinbad the pale scars made by her teeth in his arm. "That phase fades quickly, though."

"What about for men?" This is all sounding worse and worse the more he learns about it.

Niall scratches his nose as he thinks. "You get testy, as I said. Hot and irritable. Even the most easygoing men will pick a fight just beforehand, so beware. We're not quite so bad as bucks in rut, though." He grins. "Once it settles in, it's like nothing else. Words won't prepare you. You were raised in a thinking culture, as was I—a high culture. You'll assume that with your brain and your strength of will you can fight your baser urges, but you can't fight the _teas_. No one can."

"Antoine said it was fun. That doesn't sound like fun."

Niall laughs. "Oh, it's fun. Trust me. It just takes some getting used to. Drink plenty of water tomorrow, because you won't during the next few days. Even though you know better, you forget. And keep Maeve close. Most _sìthichean_ aren't monogamous, especially during the _teas_. Neither are many Celts. I know normally she can handle herself, but during the _teas_ she won't be able to. You have to do that for her."

Great. Yet another thing for him to worry about. Call him old-fashioned, but getting her with child the human way is sounding better and better.

The baby in his arms moves again, his thumb finding its way into his mouth. He looks peaceful. Despite himself, Sinbad is forced to smile. He doesn't want to start changing diapers or anything, but holding a baby isn't so bad.

"He doesn't usually fall asleep again so quickly." Niall reaches for his son. Sinbad is surprised that he doesn't feel a rush of relief at relinquishing the baby. "It's the rocking of the ship. I think he likes it." He tosses a hank of dark hair out of his eyes and lifts his son to his shoulder. "Dex wants to be a sailor. Declan. My second boy."

"Maeve mentioned that."

"He's wanted to since he was born, practically. Hearing her stories about your adventures only makes it worse." Niall chuckles.

"There are worse things he could hope to be."

"Oh, I'm not complaining. My boys can do what they want with their lives." Niall pauses. For the first time, his eyes turn dark. "Except join the church."

Sinbad can't blame him. Not after what he must have witnessed. "It must have been difficult. Giving up everything you knew. Everything you had been taught."

Niall shrugs. He shifts his weight as the Nomad shifts under him and presses his mouth to his son's little head. "It wasn't really. Not after what I'd seen. Not after meeting Wren. But…" He strokes his sleeping child's back and pulls his blanket further up. "We're on the losing side." He glances at Sinbad and away again. "It's the right side, but the losing side just the same. I'm sure you've been to Rome. Its empire has ended, but the mother church gains power day by day." He shakes his head slowly. "Eire will fall. The wild north of Britannia will fall. Even the Vikings will fall, in time. I know what's coming. But I refuse to be part of it, to let my sons be part of it."

It's perhaps the bravest thing Sinbad has ever heard a man say.

"My tutor often said that the fight against darkness is its own point, its own end." Maeve has told him the same, Dim-Dim's words repeated through her mouth.

"Funny. That's exactly what the church thinks it's doing." Niall smiles, but there's no warmth to it. "They believe they're ridding the world of evil by exterminating the _sìthichean_ and converting or slaughtering the northern tribes. I wonder whether they would still believe if they saw what I've seen?"

Sinbad was not raised to be particularly religious, and he doesn't understand zealots. He's met good people the world over—people of different cultures, religions, backgrounds. Killing people because they tell different stories around their hearths makes no sense to him, but he's seen the effects of hate just as Niall has. "Sometimes even seeing the suffering with their own eyes isn't enough to change men's hearts," he says gently. "But it was enough to change yours. And who knows? My tutor also used to say that everything happens for a reason. Without that change of heart, you wouldn't have your children now. Someday they may grow to change the world."

Niall's quiet glance is grateful. "Yours will. I'm sure of it. Take care, Sinbad. And try to sleep. You'll need it."


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: So my laptop crashed two weeks ago and couldn't be revived this time (it's been slowly dying). I ordered a new one in early January but because of the coronavirus delays in China and Japan it didn't get to me until a few days ago. My files were backed up so I didn't lose anything (yay!) but I just can't write on my phone, so updates are likewise delayed. I promise nothing here has been abandoned, it's just going to take me a bit to get all the technical stuff sorted out again. Thank you for bearing with me!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve returns early the next morning, as promised. Sinbad didn't even try to sleep. He can't. Not without her.

His eyes drink her in. He didn't get to hold her last night and he won't get to until sunset, when she takes him with her back to Breakwater. But he can look, and he does. Her red curls glitter with glints of color in the early sunlight, hanging soft and loose around her face. He can tell by that bright, fresh color and feathery texture that she washed her hair while away. Niall said the women spend the night before the _teas_ together, but Sinbad has no clue what groups of women do with no men around. Wash their hair, apparently? He watches Maeve with caution as she approaches.

She looks tense. He's been warned she'll be touchy today, and he braces himself. She has every right to be cranky as the _teas_ begins to take hold, especially since it's worse for women, but the rest of his crew doesn't know that. He may have to be a bigger buffer between them than usual.

The sky surrounding them is hazy, the water nearly flat, wind gentle. She observes his movement in the thin, early morning light. "You took the night watch."

He inclines his head. Below deck, he can hear his crew beginning to stir. The man on mess duty will have kindled a fire to heat water, cooking their morning ration of grain into thin gruel.

"You shouldn't have."

Yeah, he knows. "Couldn't have slept anyway." He offers her a smile he hopes seems friendly enough, but suspects it looks as forced as it feels. His hands ache to touch her, to feel the warmth of that freshly-washed skin, and he hates that he can't. In moments like this, he's not sure he can keep up this farce for seven moons. At some point he's going to break.

"You're going to have to get over that," she says. Her voice is gentler than he expects. Can she sleep without him? He's beyond curious, but he knows better than to ask. Even without the need for secrecy, this is something she won't readily admit to him.

The piercing cry of her hawk sounds above them and Dermott drops from the rigging, alighting on the railing. He clucks reprovingly at her and she strokes the midline of his head with a gentle finger.

"You didn't take him with you."

She shakes her head, those lovely bright curls lifting in the soft breeze. He aches to touch, to wind his fingers through them, feel the clean, silky texture, smooth and soft as cool water. "I never do. The magical protections on Breakwater's little island are purposefully heavy-handed. One of the strongest forbids the presence of anything evil. No one knows what would happen if he touched ground there while cursed, and I'm not willing to find out." The bird chirps gently; one corner of her mouth lifts in a melancholy smile. "And seeing Nessa is too hard for him. He's not himself, trapped in there, but he's not just a bird, either."

"I always knew he was more than just an ordinary bird," Sinbad admits. "At first I thought he was your familiar."

Maeve's smile shifts, no longer sad, one side tugging slightly higher. "Only witches have familiars." She sounds amused. Her cheeks are pinker than usual, and he's enchanted by the warm color.

"Yeah, I know, but even still. I knew you were no witch—Dim-Dim wouldn't have agreed to take you on if there was any evil in you. But I didn't know how else to explain the bird. He's no pet."

"Nobody else seems to notice." She glances at him, those sweet brown eyes soft with warmth. "You surprise me, Sinbad. You always have."

"Likewise, firebrand." He can't help the smile that curves his mouth, and can only hope it appears innocent enough.

She ducks her head, hiding those soft brown eyes from him. He wonders why. She knows how to conceal what she's feeling without physically hiding. Maybe she's already feeling the effects of the _teas_. That is why she left overnight, after all.

"Breakfast!" Firouz calls from below.

"Come eat. Unless you already have?"

She shakes her head. "Dawn breaks east to west. You know that. It's still night in Eire."

No wonder she's acting odd—she's probably still half asleep. Sinbad holds the door for her, letting her precede him down into the galley.

No one questions her presence on deck so early. She's not a late sleeper, often up before true dawn. The members of his crew stumble sleepily to breakfast, falling into their places on the benches around the table. Firouz ladles out rations of half-cooked barley gruel. No one on board cooks well, which means no one is allowed to complain. Doubar, as first mate, is in charge of ale and water rations, and he pours with exacting precision. They also have pickled fish—this is their ubiquitous meal on the sea. The fare does not change, only its relative quality as their stores age. Right now, less than two weeks out of Basra, in easy reach of resupply ports, everything is still reasonably fresh.

Sinbad surreptitiously watches Maeve eat. She's quiet, but no one takes it amiss. They know their sorceress and her mercurial moods, and they've learned to take her as she comes. Sinbad explained her absence last night by saying she was in her cabin studying, which she often does late into the night when she has the candles for it, and no one expects her to be bubbly so early after a presumably late night.

"You're leaving for that library today, then?" Firouz settles into his customary place on the end of a bench. "What's the name? I may have heard of it."

"It's a library of magic." Maeve's voice is cautious. She lifts her eyes from her bowl without lifting her head, observing the scientist warily. Sinbad knows that look well. Firouz needs to take care.

"Even still. Scholars of all stripes converse together. Just remember Al-Alawy. He's no magician, yet he knows about magic." Firouz takes a bite of his food, clearly unaware of the sorceress's discomfort. Sinbad's all too aware. He wants to stop it but isn't sure how without ordering Firouz to shut up, which he has no reasonable cause to do. She's extra-sensitive today but no one else can know that.

"I can't give you a name," she says after a moment. "I told you it was exclusive, and I meant it."

Firouz frowns. He's not angry, but Maeve has triggered the scientist in him, the man unable to let a question rest. "If it's so exclusive, how does a mere student have access? Did Dim-Dim?"

"No." Maeve stirs her food slowly, staring into the bowl without eating. The grains of barley are gritty and hard, not fully cooked, the broth really just water. As simple sailors they can't afford spices, but Firouz has also forgotten to add the salt that makes this meal edible. Sinbad eats it anyway. Nobody ever became a sailor for the food.

"You have access to a magical library Dim-Dim doesn't?" Doubar raises his head, suddenly paying attention.

Maeve scowls. "He knew of it. I would have taken him if he asked, but he never did."

Sinbad isn't surprised. Dim-Dim is the most intuitive person he's ever met. He would have known better than to ask to see Breakwater.

"That makes no sense." Doubar raises his mug of ale, frowning when he realizes it's already empty. "You're just a student." He looks at Maeve, then Sinbad, then Maeve again. It takes a lot to make him suspicious, but something this morning has done it. "What's really going on?"

Firouz seems to agree. "How can you and Sinbad be traveling by magic? I had no idea your studies had progressed so far."

Maeve's tense shoulders relax ever so slightly. She readily pulls her opal bracelet from her arm and hands it across the table to the inventor. "They haven't. The sort of apparition Rumina does is extremely advanced work. This is a door."

Sinbad doesn't like her removing her bracelet. It obviously takes some sort of magic to activate the spell stored in the stone; Firouz can't accidentally trigger anything. Still, he wants her to put it back on.

Firouz takes the piece of jewelry, his quick mind instantly on a tangent, his suspicions forgotten. "It's an opal." He tilts the delicate metal, a rainbow of shimmering color exploding in the jewel's heart. "A lovely one. Many contain only one or two colors. I see a full spectrum in this." He gives it back. "I had no idea Eire had opal mines."

"We don't. It came from Budapest."

Sinbad is relieved when she replaces the bracelet on her arm. He knows she doesn't wear it all the time—he never even saw the thing before this trip to Basra, after all—but he feels better when she has it on. She needs that link to her people.

"Be honest, girl," Doubar says, folding his arms on the table, leaning his bulk forward. "Is there really a library?"

Fire lights in Maeve's eyes and the pale pink color in her cheeks deepens. "I'm not a liar," she snaps. She isn't, and it guts Sinbad to hear the accusation in his brother's voice. None of this is Maeve's fault. She shouldn't have to shoulder the guilt of any of it.

"That's enough." He holds the eyes of his men, one at a time, daring them to defy him. None do. Maeve pushes her bowl away, nearly untouched. "Maeve and I are leaving tonight. We only have a few days' time to check the library's collection. When we return, we'll have a better sense of what to do next."

"Why do you have to go?" Doubar's frown deepens, the creases around his mouth disappearing in his bushy beard. "You're no better a scholar than I am."

That's not quite true; Sinbad is a _slightly_ better scholar than his brother. But he's not prepared to answer this question, and for once he finds himself speechless.

"To show them that," Maeve says with diffidence, pointing at Scratch's mark, hidden under Sinbad's clothing. "Their collection is big, and it will save time if they know exactly what we're up against."

He relaxes. Good girl. Lying to their friends troubles her, but damn, she's so good at coming up with reasonable excuses that it's a little unsettling. He trusts her completely, but he's not so sure he wants to play cards with her anymore if she can bluff like this.

Doubar and Firouz seem to accept this answer, though Doubar still looks dubious. He's slow to suspicion but also slow to calm once those suspicions are roused. Maeve distracted Firouz with something concrete he could touch and inspect, which shows how well she knows their scientist. Doubar is tougher.

"I still don't see why a slip of a girl has access to a library Dim-Dim doesn't."

Maeve closes her eyes. Her better nature struggles against her temper, and Sinbad isn't sure which will win out. She deliberately exposed herself to Antoine and Nessa last night, beginning the _teas_, and everyone has warned him that she's extra-sensitive because of it. He never quite knows what will make her lose her temper, and today he's even more adrift. He opens his mouth to order his brother's silence.

"It's the remains of a bigger library." Her voice stops him. He didn't expect it, and he watches her warily as she speaks. Her voice is deceptively soft, low and even. Her eyes are anything but. They flame with fire, a warning he doesn't know whether his brother can read. Everything about her screams an alarm, a warning not to ask any more questions. Sinbad wouldn't dare.

"What, you mean like the dregs of Alexandria?" Doubar snorts.

"The library of Alexandria didn't actually burn. That's a myth," Firouz jumps in swiftly. He freezes as something in his head clicks. Eyes bright, his head snaps toward Maeve. "But Brí Leith did."

Next to Sinbad, she goes absolutely still.

"Enough!" He brushes his knuckles against the soft skin of her bare thigh under the table. She's warm—warmer than usual, whether with temper or the _teas_, he can't say. Either way, he's shutting this conversation down. Neither Firouz nor Doubar know how to handle her, how to ask questions in a way that doesn't irritate her, and they're pushing far too close to tender subjects.

"But—" Firouz protests.

"No." Sinbad drops his voice deep into his captain's register.

"Just—is it Brí Leith, or isn't it?" Firouz pleads.

"It's none of your business!" Maeve shoves back from the table and rises, tall and fiery and obstinate. She doesn't actually lose her temper—not quite. But her cheeks burn vividly pink and she refuses to meet Sinbad's eyes as she whirls and storms up to the deck.

Rongar cannot whistle, but he purses his lips and blows in silent imitation of a low note.

Great. Sinbad rubs his forehead. He suspects he may have to resign himself to a perpetual seven-month-long headache. Or a nine-month-long one.

"Yeah, nice going," Doubar grunts, though he's every bit as responsible as Firouz, as far as Sinbad is concerned. Doubar steals Maeve's nearly untouched bowl and begins to eat.

Firouz's eyes burn bright. "It's Brí Leith. It must be. I didn't know anything survived."

"I don't care what the library's called. I don't care why she has access. All I care about is whether they have the answers we need." Sinbad rises. He suddenly feels the sleepless night behind him, the nights of too-little sleep before that. He's also not happy that Firouz disturbed Maeve at table; she needs to eat regularly and keep healthy if she's going to be with child soon. "You know better than to pester her when she clearly doesn't want to talk."

"But Brí Leith, Sinbad!" the inventor protests. His characteristic scholarly squint does nothing to hide the fervent shine in his eyes. "It was the largest, finest library in the west. Possibly in the world. Not just a library, but a...a place of learning, like the ancient Greeks had." He almost stutters, falling over himself to get the words out.

"I'm not a scholar, and I fail to see your point." He folds his arms, knowing he's being unusually hard but not really caring. Maeve's secrets are her own to keep or give as she chooses. It's not Firouz's place to take that choice from her.

"It burned—a massacre. A bloodbath, was how I heard it. Maybe ten years ago now? I assumed all was lost; nothing purported to be from their collection has ever come to market."

"And what does that have to do with this?" Sinbad touches the brand on his chest. "That's all I care about. Now I have to go check on Maeve, make sure she hasn't changed her mind because of you."

"She'll calm down. She always does." Doubar licks his spoon. "If she doesn't set something on fire first."

"She hasn't done that in months. Her control is getting better." Sinbad waves away his brother's concern. His is for the woman herself, not what she might do to his ship.

"I have to see that library, Sinbad," Firouz beseeches. "Their collection, it wasn't just magic. Brí Leith was almost a city unto itself, a city of knowledge. Science. History. Mathematics. Art and music. Philosophical theory. The scholars there collected knowledge from all over the known world. From Nippon to Muscovy, the southern kingdoms of Africa. Even from the fairies, it's said, though that part's just myth, of course."

"I'm sorry. It's out of my hands. Maeve received permission for the two of us to go, no more." Unless she has a change of heart at some point, Firouz is never going to see the remnants of this library. Certainly he won't today—Sinbad will forbid him from asking Maeve if he has to.

Doubar reaches for Maeve's ale. "I still want to know why she has access when even Dim-Dim didn't."

Sinbad takes her water before Doubar can finish that as well. He'll bring it to her topside; she needs that, at least, if nothing else. "I don't care, and that's the last I want to hear about it from either of you." He suspects Firouz is probably right; he's seen the damaged books with his own eyes, smelled the lingering scent of old smoke. Considering the near-constant violence in Maeve's homeland, he doesn't doubt that the books at Breakwater survived a massacre. But that story is Maeve's to tell when she's ready, and he doesn't want bits and pieces from Firouz. He also doesn't want the inventor pestering her, and he needs to make that very clear. Firouz is brilliant, but not always the keenest when it comes to people. "No more library talk. I'm sick to death of books. Leave her be. Do you hear me?"

"Aye, captain." Firouz sinks back, folding into himself like a dejected puppy. He looks confused. "Should I apologize to her?"

"No!" Sinbad and Doubar reply in unison. Rongar shakes his head vehemently. She needs time to cool down.

"Let's get to work," Sinbad says. "I'll try to talk to her in a while. As Doubar says, she always calms down eventually."

* * *

"Where's Dermott?"

Maeve stands alone near the bow. She likes it there, Sinbad has learned—likes to watch the bow slice cleanly through the water, to lean into the oncoming wind, salt-fresh and bracing. He approaches her cautiously. Some time has passed since her blowup at breakfast and he hopes she's calmer, but it's never easy to tell with Maeve. Her bright copper hair whips and curls behind her, moving almost like waves in the strong, gusting wind.

"Calm down, captain. I won't set you alight." She sounds resigned, which is better than angry.

"I didn't think you would." He aches to touch her, but he stops before he gets too close. The nearer he comes to her the more he wants to touch, which he cannot do. He balls his hands into loose fists to keep them at his sides. "Is he fishing?" He scans the sky overhead. Dermott doesn't tend to stray far when they're asea, but he doesn't see the hawk anywhere.

She lifts one shoulder in a jerky little shrug. "I told him where we were going tonight. And why. He got mad."

Oh. Guilt catches his shoulders and weighs heavy in his gut. "Should I talk to him?"

"Can you reach him telepathically? Because he's sure as hell not here," she snaps.

Sinbad takes no offense at her hostile tone. It's his fault her brother stormed off. He should have expected this, should have attempted to talk to him man-to-man—well, man-to-hawk. Not that either of them could say anything out loud, but still. He should have made the effort, anyway.

"He'll come back." He does his best to sound confident.

"How do you know?" She turns, glaring fire at him. "He's never done this before." More concerning to Sinbad than the anger in her eyes are the tears, shimmering wet, that she refuses to shed. Maeve doesn't cry. She has all the reasons in the world to, but that's not who she is. She closes her eyes and shakes her head as if in denial, though of what Sinbad can't guess.

"You're his little sister," he says softly. Fuck, he wishes he could touch her. He's a leader, her captain; his job is to solve problems. But this one is out of his hands—literally. He can't bring Dermott back, and he can't offer her the comfort of human touch, either. All he can give her are words, and he's no poet. "He'll come back. Let him be angry for a while."

"He thinks I don't care. That I'm content to let him stay cursed for the rest of his life." Her frustration is a tangible thing, like a thicket of thorns, pulling tighter and tighter around her. He can feel it choking her, but he doesn't know how to ease it.

"Did he say that? Or do you just assume that's what he thinks?"

"What sort of idiot do you take me for?" Her hands rise and plant against his chest, shoving him back a step. "Of course he said it."

Oh, she shouldn't have touched him. He hisses at the heat in her hands—she's much hotter than she should be, and now he understands the bright pink in her cheeks. The _teas_ is working its magic on her, whether she realizes it or not. His body instantly craves that heat, the searing warmth of her. He struggles to keep his hands at his sides, his mind on topic.

"Drink," he says, pushing her mug from breakfast into her hands. "You need it."

She looks tempted to drop it overboard in pique.

"Niall said so. He was here last night."

Her eyes gleam dangerously. "Why?"

"To talk." He shrugs. "I'm sorry about Dermott, firebrand. I really am. But I don't think he meant it. He was rightfully upset, and—"

"Rightfully upset, my ass! He's been around you southern men too long. I'm not his property!"

"That's not what I mean. He's not really angry, Maeve, he's hurt. But he can't tell you that."

She frowns, but doesn't give him an automatic sharp retort. She's listening.

"He looks like a hawk but inside he's still a man. You told me that yourself."

"Aye." She raises her mug to her lips and sips. Sinbad feels a wave of relief. The bright pink in her cheeks doesn't fade, but she's calming. Maybe words are worth something after all, even from a simple sailor.

"You think Doubar wasn't hurt when I left him to become a cabin boy? He tried his best to hide it, but I still saw. Each time I docked in Baghdad and then chose to leave again, chose the sea over him. He understood, but it still hurt."

"But I'm not choosing one over the other," she protests.

"Careful, firebrand." He flicks his eyes at the empty sky, then back to her. She's not usually improvident, but with the _teas_ in her blood he feels the need to remind her.

She scowls. "Don't treat me like a child! I'm too hot, not stupid."

Niall was right. She's definitely more touchy than usual.

"If anything, I'm protecting him by...taking you to the library."

Her save is awkward at best, but Sinbad says nothing.

"I need Dim-Dim in order to free Dermott. And I don't know that I can find Dim-Dim without you. But Dermott doesn't see it that way."

No, he wouldn't. Not a man like Dermott—a protective big brother with a little sister whom trouble constantly follows. He likes Sinbad well enough, but he raised his sister and he's not ready to see her so indelibly paired off with a man. Keely's starting to warm to him, he thinks, but Dermott needs time. He's not ready to accept Maeve as a fully autonomous—and sexual—adult. Taking Sinbad to Breakwater for the _teas_ leaves him no room to pretend anymore, and he needs some space to come to terms with that.

"You may just have to trust me on this one," he tells her gently. "It's a man thing."

"_Men_." She swears. "Why does having a dick automatically mean you have to be one?"

She's not kidding, but Sinbad can't hide his laugh. Yeah, he loves her. No matter how many headaches she gives him.

* * *

All day Sinbad watches Maeve as they work. He tries to be stealthy about it, but suspects he fails miserably. As Niall warned, her prickly temper sharpens as the day wears on. She orders Doubar out of her way twice, and even snaps at Rongar when he accidentally bumps her, which she never does. Whether because of their shared western heritage or the Moor's chivalric streak, he's usually immune from her fits of temper.

Not today.

She grows tenser as the afternoon lengthens and the heat of the sun intensifies. That creamy northern skin of hers often flushes pink at the hottest part of the day, but today she absolutely glows. It's a beautiful color, the throbbing pink of a perfect sunset, but it doesn't belong on Maeve's cheeks. Finally, when both Firouz and Rongar start giving her concerned looks, Sinbad pulls her aside. The moment he touches her arm he can feel the unnatural heat of her, even through her long sleeve.

She flinches visibly when he touches her and jerks her arm away, scowling. "Don't touch me."

"Does it hurt?"

She rubs the spot where he touched her and doesn't answer.

"This wouldn't be happening if you hadn't gone to Breakwater last night, would it?"

She shakes her head slightly. No. This is because she exposed herself to whatever it is in Nessa and Antoine that triggers the _teas_.

"Go on below. Rest until sunset. You're off duty for the rest of the day."

Her scowl deepens. "I'm fine!"

She's not, and the others are starting to notice. "You're a mess," he says bluntly. "You're snapping at everyone, you look badly feverish, and if you hang around on deck any longer Firouz is going to try to examine you. Do you really want that?"

He can feel the anger pouring from her. She's seething, but he's right and she knows it.

"Go on. Drink an extra water ration and rest. Captain's orders." He presses lightly at the small of her back, urging her toward the door.

She exhales a long breath and stops protesting. "You're lucky I like you."

"I know it. Rest, firebrand. I'll come get you at sunset if I don't see you before."

* * *

Maeve collects him just after sunset. He hopes she slept—he doubts she could concentrate much on her studies. Niall said the women get muddled and he believes it, looking at Maeve. She glows with an unnatural brightness, as if a fire burns within her, below her skin. He can feel the heat radiating off of her without even trying to touch.

"Should you be using magic when you're like this?" He's truly concerned, not just about her health, but about their safety. He's getting more used to traveling by magic but it still unnerves him.

"I'm fine."

She's really, really not. Her lovely dark eyes glow with a feverish light. Firouz would order her to bed and start mixing medicines if he saw her like this.

But they really have no choice. He doesn't know how to work the transportation spell stored in her opal, and they need to get to Breakwater. He's not sure what might happen if they don't. Without being near the _sìthichean_ he won't be triggered, but she already is. Swallowing back his reservations, he offers her his hand. Hers is as hot as the Nomad's midday deck.

The world disappears, the familiarity of his ship melting like chalk in rain. He blinks. When his eyes open, he's once again in the meadow at Breakwater.

They left the Nomad swathed in shadow. Here it's still daylight. Rich golden evening sunlight filters through the tree limbs overhead, dappling the new spring grass underfoot. Sinbad inhales a swift breath and releases Maeve's hand, drawing her body into his arms instead. He's ached to hold her for two days and now, finally, he can. He wraps her body in his arms and pulls her close, holding her tightly. She's so incredibly warm—too warm. He flattens his palm at the small of her back, the heat from her body sinking through her clothing and into his skin. His other hand reaches under her thick red mane, intent on the hidden skin beneath, so soft, so sweet. The nape of her neck is damp with sweat and she shivers when he strokes her here, his fingers gliding over that too-warm column, gentle, a tender caress. Her breath hitches in her throat and she jerks against him, a soft, startled gasp escaping her mouth.

"There's my girl." He brushes his mouth against her temple, inhaling deeply. He's ached to hold her for two days, since being denied last night. He touches her gently, remembering Niall's warning: she's uncomfortable, and he has to take care until this phase of the _teas_ passes. He knows the scent of her skin by heart and he breathes her in, instantly aware of its change. It's stronger—sweeter. Not cloying or floral, not overblown, but richer, like sugarcane drenched in tropical sunshine. Curious, unable to resist, he touches his tongue to the tiny beads of sweat just at her hairline. The taste melts on his tongue, not the familiar tang of salt, but pure liquid sugar.

She whimpers when his tongue touches her, one hand fisting his vest, and he feels her knees quiver. He presses her tighter against him; he won't let her fall. He has no idea what the _teas_ is doing to her, what it will do to him, but he's here with her through whatever happens. Precious, brave, sexy thing. She didn't want this and he understands that. She's here, doing this, for him. He couldn't love her more.

"I've got you, sweetling." His lips touch her temple once more. Her skin is searing. He inhales the new sweet scent of her, holding her tightly, securing her to him. "I won't let go." Never. She's his.

But she pushes at him, raising her head from his shoulder, her hands hard on his chest as she gathers herself and deliberately pulls away. Sudden pain, physical pain, envelops him, shocking in its intensity. Fuck, that hurts. It feels like someone ripped away his skin and a good deal of flesh, too, when she steps back. He inhales sharply and automatically reaches for her again. Gods-fucking-damn, that hurts. He needs it to stop.

She takes another step backward, then another. Her arms rise and wrap around her own body tightly, her head shaking, feverish eyes guarded. Through the painful haze in his mind, Sinbad recognizes the warning. He tightens his jaw and forces himself to stop.

"Please," she says, swallowing hard. He watches the movement of her throat, transfixed by that tiny, smooth motion. "Don't touch me again. Not until…"

Not until he can't help it anymore. Not until he breaks under the pressure of the _teas_.

Okay.

He sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, clear his mind of the haze of pain. Unfortunately, he inhales a deep breath of her syrup-sweet scent. His cock throbs, hard and heavy and achingly painful. Fuck, he wants her. Wants her more than he's ever wanted a woman before. His body aches with need, with the pain of losing that sweet warmth. She's three steps away and yet it feels suddenly like she's placed an ocean between them.

But he won't deny her request. Not a command so stark, not when she's obviously so uncomfortable. Niall says he can't fight the _teas_, but Niall is wrong. He can feel it blooming in his blood, the all-consuming desire, the inexplicable need for her. She was right—he absolutely didn't need any extra exposure last night. It's in him anyway, pulling at him, demanding he give in. She's so close, warm and female and his for the taking. He could overpower her if he wanted. He eyes her, the heat in his blood expanding, warming him as it warms her. She shifts her weight on unsteady legs, and the rich female scent of her, the hot wetness hiding up under her short little skirt, hits his senses like a potion. His gaze darts to the flushed skin of her chest, watches the rise and fall of her breasts as she breathes. So beautiful. So his. He could take her right here.

But he won't. He can't. His mind is still his own, and he refuses. He has no idea what that would do to her, and he doesn't want to find out.

Her arms shift. Every motion of her body instantly attracts his attention; he's a predator now, with the heat rising in his veins, and she's most definitely his prey. He watches as she slides her opal bracelet from her arm and stows it in the pouch at her waist. Her action is clear: there's no turning back now.

Sinbad eyes the expansive meadow between them and the house. It's big, drenched in late sunshine shifting deeper gold every moment, nearing sunset. He's determined to hold out as long as he can, but he's honestly not sure they'll make it to the house.

Adding to his distress, the meadow is full of people. He loathes them on sight. Strangers mill and pace, and he feels the tension in his body wind tighter, his muscles gathering, preparing for a fight. He grinds his teeth and sucks in another breath, deliberately turning his head so he won't scent Maeve so strongly. His body fights his commands. It wants her, wants to take her, to guard her, to keep her from the other men in the meadow. She's his; they can't have her.

But his body has never controlled him before and he refuses to let it now. He squares his shoulders with the house and steps forward, out of the treeline. Orange-gold sunlight drenches him, but its warmth is nothing compared to the lustrous, devastating heat of his Maeve. She falls in step beside him, arms still clamped tightly around herself.

Most of the people in the meadow look as uncomfortable as Maeve, as tense as he, though a few seem giddy, almost manic. Most also bear wings and the telltale pointed ears that mark them as _sìthiche_, but not all. He deliberately picks his way across the grass, giving the other men a wide berth. Maeve can be a jealous creature at times but she doesn't seem to see these other females as a threat. She pays no attention to them or the men, head down, huddled in her own discomfort.

Some people seem better able to handle the effects of the _teas,_ and remain productive. Two large men bear a trestle between them, setting it at the end of a line of tables. Women bring large bowls and platters of bread and fruit. Another man hefts a barrel onto a table and swiftly taps it. The people are quieter than Sinbad is used to for a crowd this size, and abruptly he realizes, as he picks his way across the meadow, one reason why: all the children are absent.

"Where are the kids?"

"Elsewhere." Maeve's voice is clipped, matter-of-fact. She untucks her arms only to rub the cuff of her sleeve across her forehead. Oh, he doesn't like that. He's shocked by how much he doesn't like it. He wants that liquid sugar on his tongue, not her sleeve.

"This isn't a time for children." Keely appears beside them holding a huge glass bowl nearly overflowing with ripe pears. Once again Sinbad says nothing about the season. He's learned it's better not to question these things. The pears' scent is sweet and strong as she places the bowl on a table and wipes her hands on the cloth covering her hips.

Sinbad considers the woman standing beside his Maeve as the _teas_ heats his blood. The hunger in him recognizes her as female, but it doesn't demand her as it demands Maeve. Most of his mind is still his own, and he's able to wonder why, even as he watches the men around him warily. She's such a little thing, so different from his Maeve despite their similar personalities. It takes Sinbad aback every time he sees her. Maeve is tall and stately, strong and stunning, befitting her bold character. Keely is cute, he supposes, but she's such a little package for that intractable temperament. She's dressed today in faded, patched men's trousers slung low on her hips. Perhaps that barrier with her female scent is what keeps the _teas_ in check where she's concerned. He doesn't know.

Keely rubs her forehead with her wrist, then takes Maeve's hand and gives it a quick squeeze. She looks nearly as tense as her friend. Sinbad seethes when she touches her—Keely may be a woman, but he doesn't like seeing her hands on her at all. No one should be touching his Maeve but him. He tightens his fists and forces himself to keep still, though he aches to push between them, to corral Maeve off by herself. She's his. No one else can have her.

"Come on," Keely says, nodding toward the house. Her skin is as damp and pink as Maeve's, and she sounds weary. Everyone has said the beginning of the _teas_ isn't pleasant for women, more like being sick with a terrible fever than anything else. They definitely look feverish, cheeks brightly flushed, and Maeve's soft dark eyes are fever-bright.

Before they reach the house, a flash of green covers the sky. It lasts just an instant, followed a heartbeat later by a flash of vibrant violet. Heads crane upward; what little conversation there was dies.

"That's the last of the protective blocks." Keely glances at Maeve, then continues forward.

Maeve flinches and wraps her arms around herself again, hugging her body tightly. Her head drops forward, face obscured by the glittering fall of her sunset hair.

"Maeve." His hand reaches for her; he has to forcibly pull back. He squeezes a fistful of nothing and lets his arm fall. The pain deepens. He needs her badly. His cock aches, balls hurt, but more than that, the torturous pain of having her so near yet untouchable fills him.

"It's a safety precaution," she says without lifting her head. "Breakwater has now been sealed for the protection of everyone here. No one will be able to enter or leave, either magically or by sea, until the _teas_ has passed."

There's really no going back now. He couldn't offer her a retreat even if he wanted to. Not that he thinks he could bear it, anyway. He can keep from touching her, just barely, taking one moment at a time, with the promise that she'll be all his very, very soon. But he can't just return to the Nomad. Not now. Not after what the _teas_ has done to him already. He swallows hard and tries not to breathe, struggling to remain in control just a little longer. It won't be long now.

They enter the house through the kitchen, Sinbad following Maeve closely, unable to keep away. Antoine bumps them both, carrying another cask toward the door. Maeve hisses and jumps back as if she's been burned.

"Watch it!" Sinbad steps quickly between them. Fury lights in his blood, singeing his veins. He can tolerate a woman touching her, but not this.

"Easy, man. The _teas_ hasn't settled in yet. She's fine," Ant snaps, frowning. The easygoing man looks tenser than Sinbad has ever seen.

Keely turns, watching them warily. Her green eyes are too light to show the fever in Maeve's.

"That one's mine." Ant jerks his chin toward her. "I have no desire to fight you for yours."

"Maeve." Keely holds out her hand. It's a command, not a request.

To Sinbad's surprise, Maeve obeys. It's the sort of imperious order she hates, but right now that doesn't seem to matter. She crosses the kitchen, stepping around Wren, and lets Keely take her hand.

As if he's leashed to her, chained by this invisible force he can't control, Sinbad follows. He steps away from Antoine, letting the _sìthiche_ pass unhindered. Wren follows. It's the first time he's seen her without at least one child attached. Her sharp, angular face looks pained. She kisses Maeve's cheek wordlessly before heading out to the meadow with a large, hard cheese.

At the bottom of the main staircase Keely stops. "I had Niall fit your door with an extra lock, just in case." She bites her lip, then reaches forward and hugs Maeve tightly despite the Celt's rigid stance. "Not that I think anything will happen. Just, you know, for peace of mind." She rolls onto her toes, rising far enough to kiss Maeve quickly before settling back to her bare feet. "Stay together for security, remember. No one here will hurt you, but if you quicken you need the child to be Sinbad's." She glances at him, then back at her best friend. "Good luck."

Maeve is white below her feverish flush. She tries to force a smile but fails miserably. Sinbad wants badly to touch her, to comfort her, but he's all too aware of her previous request. Not yet. Not until he can't help it anymore.

Her quick footsteps up the stairs are a retreat. He follows, unable to keep away despite how uncomfortable she obviously is.

As promised, there's a new iron bolt as well as the common wooden latch on her door. She secures both behind them and exhales deeply, some of the tension leaking from her body once the barrier is in place. Sinbad feels the same. Being around the others is too much right now. He needs Maeve, and only Maeve.

"I'm sorry," he says softly, tightening his fists. His blunt nails are short but they dig into his callused palms nonetheless. Fuck, he needs her. This pain is unlike any he's ever felt before. He aches—everything in him aches for everything she is, and he knows touching her, tasting her, fucking her, will stop the pain, but he can't. Not until she says so. Not until he can't help himself. He folds his arms across his chest to stop himself from reaching for her.

"You couldn't help it." She looks so uncomfortable, and even afraid, which is something he rarely sees in her. Her cheeks glow pink, the flush extending down her chest, disappearing in the tempting shadow of cleavage between her breasts. He wants to lick just there, in that shadow, where he knows liquid sugar sweat has beaded, coating her in sweetness. She hugs herself tightly and crosses to the window. Sheer white drapery covers the view without obscuring it. From here they can see down into the meadow. Golden evening sunlight has turned violently orange and red as the island prepares for night. The tables of provisions look abandoned; only a few people are visible now, most having retreated to the trees. She sucks in a deep breath, body visibly trembling.

"Do you hurt?" It's a stupid question. Of course she's hurting. So is he.

Maeve rubs her wrist over her forehead. "Yes. No. I don't know." She shifts, the orange-red sunset coating her with light. Her throat flashes as she swallows. Sinbad breathes in. Her scent is stronger, and has shifted once more, still sweet, now richer, like something absolutely edible. He hisses low and his body starts forward before he forces it back under control once more. Oh, fuck, he wants her. It's like a potion hitting his bloodstream, like his first shot of whiskey but so much stronger, fire-sweet pain, flowing from her, every line and curve of her body calling to his. Motherfucking hell, he needs her. She's beyond beautiful like this, glowing like the fire he often calls her, awash in the sunset light that tells him the wait is over—the _teas_ has truly begun. He can smell her even from across the room.

She hides her face in her hands and whimpers. Her knees buckle; he's there in an instant, pulling her to his chest, holding her steady against him. The touch of her body explodes through him like fire. It eases the pain, but only a little, and the intensity of contact overwhelms him. He forces himself to stand firm; inside he's reeling. She's so hot, hot and soft and all female. His arms pin her tightly to him. "I've got you." His voice sounds strange in his ears, grating out of a throat gone dry.

She's searing hot, too hot, and she struggles to get away from his tight grip. "Let go," she pleads, shoving at him, and he doesn't know where he gets the willpower to obey, but he does. She's confused, as Niall warned, those sweet, dark eyes bright with fever. She stumbles on legs suddenly gone weak and sinks to the bed, sitting on the edge, restless, unable to keep still. "Too hot." She pushes her hair out of her eyes and abruptly toes off her boots, exposing her graceful lower calves. She draws her knees up and tries to hug her legs, but the position is too uncomfortable with the heat racing through her, increasing moment by moment.

Unable to keep away, Sinbad kneels on the floor in front of her. He wants to see her face. He's also cautious, especially after seeing the scars Niall wears. He has no wish to be bitten like that, and in this state he absolutely believes Maeve will if cornered. Her head falls forward, face hidden by her heavy copper curls.

He reaches out, forcing his hands to remain gentle despite his own pain, the need coursing through him. He brushes her hair back, pulling it over her shoulder, exposing her face once more. Fever-bright, her eyes shine beautifully but he's not sure she recognizes him or can even quite focus. Desire flares hot in him. If he pushes her to her back he can be on top of her, where his body aches to be, before her muddled mind realizes what he's doing. His concern for her, his absolute refusal to overpower her despite the _teas_, keeps him still. He can't. She's scared, and she means too much to him to take advantage of her like that.

"Maeve." He calls to her softly. Her fevered eyes meet his for a moment before darting away. She's scared and confused, and truly in pain now. "Sweetling." She shakes her head. He has no idea what that means, but he's not as feverish and muddled as she, and he understands what's happening to them. If she lets herself relax and accept his touch, the pain will end. But she's scared, and when she's scared she fights.

"I know, firebrand. I know it hurts. Come here." He slips two fingers under her chin and lifts, urging her to raise her head, to meet his eyes once more. The painful ache intensifies the moment he touches her. She whimpers, fighting the gentle pressure. Her sweet scent surrounds him, and it gives him an idea. He uses a touch more pressure, holding her chin and lifting her unwilling face to his. Sweat glitters like a dusting of crystal at her hairline. He presses his forehead to hers and exhales deliberately, forcing her to breathe him in. "Breathe, sweetling," he urges, watching her, holding onto his control, but just barely. She licks her full lips and inhales deeply. He breathes with her, exhaling as she inhales. Each time he's wracked anew with pain as that hot-sweet scent hits him, and he hopes he's doing the same to her.

She's obscenely hot, the heat radiating off of her devastating. The heat of her skin, the way her chest rises and falls as she breathes, draws him inexorably to her. This is his woman. No one else's. The locks on the door prove it. The other men can fight in the woods like stags in rut. He has the world right here.

She licks her lips again. He aches to do that for her. Her delicate, arched brows draw together; she's hurting, truly in pain, and she rubs at her arms through her long linen sleeves, her body shifting on the mattress, as if she's trying to escape her own skin. He knows what will ease it, but she's afraid and he's still in control of himself enough to understand that. He exhales once more, gratified when her head shifts, her face lifting slightly, mouth opening to willingly breathe him in. Gods, the scent of her. It pools around him, heady, rich, sugarcane and something else now, too, some unknown spice as the _teas_ shifts, altering her once more. He parts her legs and pushes between them, bringing their clothed bodies into contact. The rush of scent when her legs open hits him like nothing else. Fire-sweet, sugar and heat, yes, but also the unmistakable smell of very human female arousal. She's confused, but her body sure as hell isn't. He groans low and forces himself to remain still, breathing with her, letting her drown in his scent as he drowns in hers.

"Maeve. Listen to me. I won't hurt you." It's a promise he's made to her many times, a promise she accepts with skepticism. This time he doubts his words even register, but he keeps talking anyway. It helps ground him, even if it does nothing for her. "I've touched you before. Remember? How good it can be? Have I ever hurt you?" His hands curl at her slim waist, firm but not bruising.

To his surprise, those feverish eyes meet his. Her gaze darts like frightened prey before he catches and holds it. The pain in his own body intensifies. Fuck, he wants her. This feeling, it's unlike any need he's ever felt before. The fire in her calls to him, maddening in its heat; she's a siren of flame and the only thing in the world he wants is to willingly, happily burn.

"Sinbad." It's a hoarse call from a throat gone dry. He's still not sure those fever-bright eyes register his face, but something in her knows him—his scent, or the way he holds her body so carefully in his hands.

"I'm here. I'm right here." He holds her gaze and exhales again.

Her mouth opens, tipping toward him, drinking him in. Good girl. Yes, she knows him. His smell, his hands. She'll know the taste of his mouth with one more breath. Her eyelashes flicker, quick as the wings of a moth. He aches for the taste of her.

She closes her mouth and swallows, the movement in her throat catching his eye. He tears his gaze from her hazy eyes and presses his mouth just there, at the tender spot in her throat where he can see her pulse throb. The _teas_ wraps its needy, insidious hunger around him, tightening its hold. Gods, she's so hot, so perfectly hot, and he can't concentrate on anything else. His blood pulses painfully in his veins, fast and hard, as his heart races. His cock throbs, desperately painful despite his loose clothes. Maeve's not pushing him away this time and he opens his mouth against her skin, the damp column of her throat.

Her taste melts on his tongue, pleasure crashing through his brain, flowing down his spine. Her sweat is liquid sugar, melting swiftly into fiery spice, the sweet burn on his tongue instantly addicting. He licks, dragging the flat of his tongue against her sweat-damp skin. A melting little moan leaves her mouth but she clamps it instantly down, silencing herself.

"No, firebrand. You're safe here." He touches his lips to her hot skin. "We're safe. Let me hear you."

She's so hot under his mouth, hot and female. He can feel the swift pulse of blood just under that thin, delicate skin, mirroring his own. Her scent surrounds him, sweet fire and her own delicious wet desire—she's confused and still in pain but her body knows exactly what it wants. Despite her fear, this is why they're here. The presence of the _sìthichean_ ensures that she's most fertile now, for three days as the _teas_ holds her captive to her body's demands. They've deliberately put themselves in this situation where she has no physical ability to refuse.

"I know it hurts, sweetling. Let me make it better." He can end the pain for both of them, if she lets him. Staying where he is, keeping away from the liquid heat he can smell between her legs, is torture. He aches to have her, but he refuses to force her. Niall says he can't control himself. Maeve believes the same. He has to prove them wrong. His cock throbs, painfully swollen, the need threatening to overtake him, push him beyond his ability to keep control. But he's never surrendered unwillingly to his body before, and he never will. He's stronger than that, better than that.

She whimpers, confused and overwhelmed by her body's mixed signals, the sound pure pain and misery. He presses forward, moving his hands from her waist, curling his arms possessively around her as he drags his mouth away from her throat. Everything in his body screams at him when his lips leave her skin. His balls ache, painfully overfull, hungry to breed her, and his cock hurts like nothing he's ever felt before. The effort it takes to move his mouth away from her skin overwhelms him. His body shakes, desperate to seize control from his mind.

He tilts his head upright and hovers just a breath away from that sweet, tempting mouth. One more breath. Just once more. She's at the tipping point.

To his surprise, she lifts her arm, her hand bumping his shoulder before coming to rest, curling that searing-hot palm around the back of his neck. Oh, that's good. She's so warm, and he loves it. His nose nudges hers.

Her mouth lifts to his again, ready to accept his breath. He inhales the dizzying scent of her and pauses a moment. So beautiful. Niall was wrong. He won't ever hurt her. He moves his mouth that last tiny fraction, touching her open, waiting lips, and breathes softly into her.

Her gorgeous moan goes unstifled this time. The hand at the back of his neck tightens. Fairly sure she won't bite him, he slides his tongue gently against hers. Still confused, still foggy with fever, she gives up the fight. Her body relaxes into his, and she lets him be exactly what she needs.

His pain instantly eases. He exhales a swift breath and deepens the kiss, her mouth delicious, hot-sweet, fire-sweet, that strange sugar-flame taste melting on his tongue, almost familiar, instantly addicting. He licks her plush lower lip, hungry for more. Her breath hitches, melting into a sexy little cry that does him in. He lets the heat pull him under, ceding control now that she's no longer fighting him, letting the _teas_ take over, the procreative force flowing through her, through him, through everyone on this island. His hands swiftly unbuckle her belt and slide beneath her skirt, lifting layers of cloth over her head. He presses her back into the bed, mouth locked with hers. Underneath her clothes, underneath him, she's exactly as perfect as he knew she would be. His hands and mouth know this body but his eyes don't and he stares covetously, caressing her with his gaze. She's long and lean, silky and smooth, a rainbow of colors from palest cream to ripe peach, pink and glistening when he parts her strong, yielding thighs. He holds her open and lowers his mouth to lick, craving the taste of her, the sweet heat he can't get enough of.

At the first touch of his tongue she cries out, high and sweet, almost a song. He loves her noises and wants more, wants to hear her pant and cry and moan for him. She's molten, silky and slick with liquid heat, and he laps at her wetness, burning sweet, laving at her plush, velvet folds. She removed her little patch of pubic hair since he touched her last, and he's instantly addicted to the feel of velvet-soft bare skin under his tongue. He wants everything—wants to take his time with her, to revel in his ability to see her, to hear her. He tries to tell his body he has all the time in the world, but it isn't listening. The heat surges in his blood, kindling to fire, erupting as the liquid sugar-heat of her explodes on his tongue. He drags the flat of his tongue over the hard little ruby of her clit, hearing her curse in response. The lean muscles of her inner thighs contract under his hands as she tries to move but he holds them down, holds her open, firm and hard. She can writhe with pleasure later; right now he needs her taste like he needs the sea, and he won't be denied.

She comes quickly, body twisting with pleasure despite his hands, moving under him like flame. He licks at the beads and swirls of sweat on her too-hot skin, teeth grating the protruding knob of her hipbone, lips following the curve of her lowest rib as she pants. This sweet body is known and yet unknown, and he feels a rush of need hit him deeper, harder, as the violent sunset light fades toward night. He needs to take her while he can see. This time he won't be denied that pleasure. He refuses.

She doesn't resist, mouth yielding sweetly to his kiss as he pulls one supple thigh over his hip and enters her smoothly. Bliss takes him. She's more than ready for him, lush and hot, glistening wet, perfectly tropical and perfectly sexy. Her head tips back, breaking the kiss as she melts into the mattress, letting him do as he pleases. He moves swiftly, body taking over, hot and hard within her. Next time he'll be gentle, he promises himself. Or the time after. Right now he needs her. He kisses her hard, drowning in her taste, the wet glide of their bodies, the way she feels underneath him, so hot, the gleam of smooth, sweat-slick skin in the last dim glow of sunset. As the light fades so too does her confusion, the fevered brightness in her eyes. She's still searing hot under his body, surrounding his length as he presses deep into her, so sweet, so good.

"Need you," she gasps when he releases her mouth for a moment. "Please, Sinbad."

Anything. Everything. Whatever she wants. "I'm here," he promises. He pushes deep and strokes her pretty clit. She comes with a sharp cry, legs clamping tight around him. "Good girl," he groans, jaw tense, body rigid as he struggles to keep control through her release. He's not ready to come yet, not ready for this to end. "Good girl. You know me. You know what you want."

"I want you." She swears softly as he strokes her clit and thrusts again. Those gorgeous legs tremble around him, her soft folds lush and swollen, deep pink in the deepening twilight. That body of hers knew what it wanted from the beginning, the fucking _teas_ messing with her head, making her afraid. He hates it, but goddamn, he loves the scorching heat of her, the fiery spicy sweetness of her scent, her taste. They're both drenched and shaking, and he loves every fucking second of it.

"You have me," he groans, petting her silky folds, thrusting deep, as hard as he dares. The sensation of that tight, molten cunt is too much and he has to pull his hand away, falling forward and bracing himself against the mattress. She fucks him back, hips curling to meet his, short nails scratching harmlessly along his slick back. Oh, he likes that, likes how her fingers dig into the meat of his muscles, anchoring her firmly to him. He flexes his shoulders and thrusts deep, hot and firm up into her, his hipbones merciless against the tender insides of her thighs. They'll both wear marks from this night, but neither complain.

"More," she pleads, jerking her hips up, grinding against him with a high, needy whine.

More. _More._ His body demands the same. He pounds her faster, hard and deep, until he feels her clench around him with a high, sharp cry. This time he can't hold back. He presses deep and holds, pleasure exploding through him, holding him captive for long moments as his balls contract and he spills within her. He groans and curses as his vision greys and his world shrinks to where he's buried inside her, this one exquisite sensation. He swears in that moment he can smell her empty womb, his body rushing to fill it. Deep satisfaction takes him as he empties himself inside her, seeding her, filling her, exactly as the _teas_ demands.

"Oh, gods." She shudders under him, otherwise keeping still, letting him breed her. Her soft mouth touches his throat, panting lightly against his skin.

When he softens he slips from her, the fire in his blood cooling slightly, allowing him a moment of clearer thought. He turns to his back and pulls her with him, her sweet body soft and willing. He kisses her mouth, her swollen lips, caressing her sweat-slick body gently.

"Fuck, girl." He exhales deeply, head falling to the pillow, gathering her firmly against his side. Being away from her hurts too much; he needs her right here with him.

"Literally." She slides a sleek leg over his hip. He grabs her knee, stroking the smooth skin. That's his girl. She's exactly where he wants her. "Did I hit you?" She lifts her head, resting her chin on his chest, dark eyes watching him with concern. Full night has fallen but soft moonlight illuminates the room, gilding her sweaty body with silver.

"No." He strokes her cheek with his fingers. "You don't really remember much before sunset, do you?"

She shakes her head. He thought not.

"You didn't do anything wrong," he assures her, running the pad of his thumb across her swollen lower lip. Oh, he loves those lips. "Even if you had hit me, it wouldn't have been your fault. It would have been mine, for not taking enough care with you."

She kisses his thumb and smiles softly. He suspects she has hit a man before during the _teas_. Possibly quite severely, and he's fiercely glad. He can't do anything about what's happened to her in the past, but no one else gets to touch her from now on. She's his.

"Are you still afraid of me?"

She's boneless in his arms, body pliant and sweetly replete for the moment as the _teas_ allows them a rest. Her mouth traces the sharp line of his jaw, nips his ear gently. "I was never afraid of you."

"You were afraid of something." He brushes her nose with his, then licks the curve of her well kissed lower lip. She's so incredibly soft, he swears he's never touched anything so silky, so warm. The fevered light in her dark eyes still glimmers slightly, but the confusion has receded. He tightens his arms around her and shifts their bodies so she's on top of him instead of beside.

"Myself, mostly." She stretches her body along his, biting his lower lip before kissing him deeply. "No, that's not true. Not really."

He cups her delicate, lovely face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs, feeling the heat of her melting, sinking into his skin. So beautiful. So sweet. Life is difficult and complicated, sometimes terrible and bloody, but when they're together like this, just the two of them, nothing could be simpler. "You're scared of losing control. You don't like the _teas_, not because you don't like sex, but because you don't like being out of control."

She sucks that sweet, full lower lip into her mouth and nods wordlessly.

He doesn't need her words. He understands completely. It's why he's captain despite his brother's age, why he maintains firm discipline over his crew and himself at all times. He and she both have deep scars from shattered pasts, and choose to deal with them the same way—by striving to always maintain control, to never be so vulnerable again. It's kept them safe thus far, but Sinbad can see how much they've also missed because of it.

"Give me that." He reaches for her mouth, takes her lip as she releases it, biting down, sucking on the succulent flesh. She's sugarcane and spice, hotter than fresh cinnamon, hotter than ginger, and as her breath mingles with his he feels the _teas_ waking in his blood again. He groans against her mouth. She moves, her legs sliding to either side of him, and rises up just enough to free his erection, swollen and straining once more.

His hand rests on her hip; she moves without urging, squeezing his length with her hand, guiding him into her body, taking his thick, weeping cock eagerly. His free hand cups and caresses a perfect breast, thumb stroking over the hard pink nipple. Soon she will suckle his child here, and the thought makes him throb inside her. Maybe it's the_ teas_ working on him and maybe not, but suddenly he aches for it, to watch her belly swell with his child, the evidence of how much she means to him and what she's willing to do for isn't just a fight for his soul anymore—nor was it ever, if he's honest with himself. With any other woman it could be that simple, but not this one. She's his now and forever.

He sits up and her long, graceful legs wrap around him. She's so, so hot, their bodies twined together, slick and needy, rocking, keeping pace. His hands cup her taut, firm ass, sleek skin over hard muscle, guiding her up and down his cock. She's supple and flexible, lithe body able to move in ways his can't, and she braces her arms at his strong shoulders as he rocks her, spearing her deep, so deep, working her slender, sweaty body roughly. She kisses him, panting, and bites his lip hard. One sharp tooth breaks skin and she licks the little trickle of blood, unrepentant. Without thinking he lifts a hand from her buttock and brings it down again with a hard smack. Without the _teas_ he'd never dare, but she squeals and gasps, her tight walls squeezing around him. Her reaction drives him to do it again and he spanks the gorgeous curve of her bottom once more, forceful, driving the palm of his hand against her flesh. Her squeal turns into a cry and she comes abruptly, fingers digging into the meat of his shoulders, her sweet cunt gripping him tight, so tight, until he follows her moments later. He presses deep, holding her firmly in his lap, emptying himself into her with long spurts, a dozen or more. It's ridiculous, inhuman; he blames the_ teas_.The hunger refuses to let him go and he propels her to her back, still hard, still deep within her, stroking out and then back in, one hand falling to part her silky folds, finding her clit.

Her breath catches and she spasms around him. His thumb is rough as he rolls that hard little pearl in tight circles, urging her higher, pounding her harder. He presses her leg back and pushes deep, the head of his cock bumping her cervix. The whimper she makes falls somewhere between pleasure and pain. Bottoming out in her means he's exactly where he needs to be to breed her. Pounding hard, forcing himself deep, he bumps her cervix again, and again. It's visceral, overwhelming; he can't last. He rubs her clit faster and drops his head to suck the side of her throat, needing the taste of her on his tongue, needing her to come with him.

She cries out and does, helpless in the grip of the _teas_, and as he presses her cervix this time he comes inside her once more, seed spilling from him, her body trembling violently, writhing with the force of the climax burning through her. It lasts and lasts, and she sobs with the relentless force, the pressure of him inside her, filling her even as her body milks him, its movements out of her conscious control. It's beautiful and carnal, painful and fantastic. Sinbad has never felt anything like it, and as she shakes and writhes, he knows she feels the same.

Finally he slumps over her, exhausted, bathed in sweat and panting. He wraps her trembling body in his arms and rolls to his side, bringing her with him. Her leg tucks itself over his hip. His cock, half hard, refuses to slip from her body.

"Shh," he soothes as she clings to him, and he tucks her head under his chin. Though she's nearly as tall as he is, she likes to lie like this, his body encircling hers, as if protecting her from the world.

Maybe he is.

"You lost control." He kisses her damp hair and hugs her tightly. She's calming, her body becoming liquid again, the tension bleeding from her muscles, leaving her soft and tired. "We both did." A tremor ripples through her and she nuzzles his throat. "Are you okay?" Her body says she is but he's learned that, with this girl, that means nothing.

She stills, thinking. After a moment she moves, shifting away far enough to meet his eyes. Hers are wide, wondering. She nods slowly.

"Then nothing bad happened." He kisses her forehead, her nose, those perfect, swollen lips. Tear tracks glimmer on her cheeks in the moonlight. She'd tell him if she were hurt—she cried with the overwhelming intensity of the experience, but not from pain.

She kisses him back, mouth slow, gentle now. She licks the swollen spot on his lip where he bled, soft but still utterly unrepentant. Good. He's not sorry, either.

But he is absolutely soaked, and so is she. Chill air blows in the open window, reminding him how far north they are, how new the spring. He shivers, and goosebumps erupt along Maeve's arms. Her nipples pebble and she hugs herself tightly against him.

"I noticed a bathtub across the corridor," he says, wrapping her in his arms. They're both covered in sweat and fluids. Part of him loves it. The other part of him is cold. "If we fill it, can you heat the water?"

"Of course."

"Will a bath be too hot for you?" He draws his hand through the tangles of her sweaty curls, stroking her hair gently away from her face. She felt awful earlier today, and he doesn't want to accidentally bring that fever back.

"No." Her voice is soft, languid and sleepy. He has no idea how far the night advanced while they were occupied. Neither does he care. "The sick part is over for now. Until the next _teas_." Her lovely nose wrinkles.

With any luck, she'll be with child before the next _teas_ and they won't need it. He traces the graceful line of her spine with his fingertips with the lightest touch. His body feels strange, both exhausted and on edge, hyper-aware of her, every movement of that exquisite body.

"Come, then. Will the _teas_ let us rest for a while?" He slides off the bed, suddenly much colder without the scorching heat of her against him.

She lifts herself to a sitting position, stretching slowly. "If not, you'll get a bathtub fuck."

Either way. He's somewhat surprised there's anything left in him to give her, and somewhat not. The damn _teas_ is to blame, he's sure of it. Three days of this might kill him, but fuck, what a way to go. He slips an arm under her knees, the other around the small of her back, and lifts her easily.

"Put me down!" she squeals, but she's also laughing, so he doesn't.

"Shut the window, firebrand, and then you can have a hot bath." He pauses by the window so she can close it. Outside he can see two couples bathed in moonlight, oblivious to everything but each other. He knows how they feel, but he's also grateful for the snug house. And the locks on the door. Niall says people aren't necessarily monogamous during the _teas_, but Sinbad is. Nobody gets to touch his girl but him.


	11. Chapter 11

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

The hours bleed into each other. Day—night—time has no meaning other than the relative light through the window. His world reduces to nothing but the blinding need in his body, interspersed with brief moments of clarity. At one point Sinbad thinks he hears rain, but he isn't sure and doesn't care. All that matters is the scent of female skin, the fiery, painful-sweet taste on his tongue. He falls asleep inside her, wakes a dozen minutes later hard and aching once more. She's everything; his world. Hot under his hands, more than willing even when he wakes her abruptly, burning with want.

She's like fire, a living spark he can hold in his hands, searing hot, her body supple and flexible, able to move like flame, agile and lissome. He always knew she was lithe but not how much. Their furtive, silent fucks in the black of night couldn't prepare him for what that body can really do. She denies him nothing, which he realizes is at least partly the _teas_, but he suspects part of it is her, the true her, unleashed. She's in the safest place she knows, no one else to witness, and she trusts him fully. There's no reason to hold back. She lets him fuck her with his fingers, his cock, his mouth, in any position he attempts. She'll suck him happily, and he loves the feeling of her mouth on him as much as he loves the taste of her, that fire-sweet, ginger-hot burn. What he loves most, though, is simply when she's on top of him and he can watch her move, his hands free to touch and caress as he pleases.

He wakes from a few minutes' sleep to find her stretching slowly, curled on his chest like a cat. The room is shadowed, neither night nor day, but whether dawn or twilight he doesn't know. She moans softly as she stretches that gorgeous, sleek body. "Hungry," she whines.

Have they eaten since leaving the Nomad? He tries to concentrate, his recent memories hazy and indistinct. But he's pretty sure they haven't left her room except for one bath, which means they probably haven't eaten. In how long, he has no idea. The mention of food wakes his stomach and suddenly he's famished, too.

But they have no food in the room, so will have to go downstairs for it. His arms curl around her sweet body possessively. They made it across the corridor for a bath with no mishaps, but the thought of venturing into public areas of the building fills him with unease. Maeve is his. If they encounter another man right now there will be a fight; he's lucid enough to understand that. The hot-sweet, richly female scent of her is irresistible and he can't tolerate anyone else touching her, which adds up to trouble. He presses his mouth to her shoulder, not really surprised to find a love bite bruised into the smooth skin of her throat, though he doesn't expressly remember putting it there. He breathes her in, comforted by the scent of her, fire and sugar. They're safe right here, in a comfortable bed, locked behind a sturdy door. He touches the mark on her neck with his tongue, nuzzles the sweet divot behind her ear. Her scent pools around them and he revels in it. He's hungry, but leaving this spot is a terrible idea. He ignores his empty stomach, not difficult to do with her hot, liquid-sweet body pressed against his. He wraps her in his arms and rolls them over, settling on top of her. His nose nuzzles her nipple; he craves her taste and he sucks it into his mouth, biting down gently.

"Fuck," she hisses, her sweet nipple hardening in his mouth, her body melting into the mattress. "Hungry," she says again, even as her hips tilt toward him, her arms slipping around his shoulders.

So is he. So fucking hungry. But not, right now, for food. He wants her in every possible way he can have her.

"Come here, sweet girl." He raises his head from her breasts, lifts himself over her. Fuck, he needs her. "I'll feed you."

Offering her his cock instead of food would ordinarily get him killed, but it's the _teas._ She wraps her long fingers around his base and licks the weeping slit willingly. As conscious thought begins to recede, he wonders if he tastes as good to her as she does to him.

He must, because as he straddles her chest she licks the sensitive head again, slow, savoring. He pushes forward slightly and she lets him, opening her mouth, allowing him to glide in. She's so hot, so wet, and his eyes slam shut at the overwhelming rush of sensation as she closes her lips around his length and begins to suck. "Good girl," he groans, pushing further, deeper. He loves her smartass, impudent mouth, and oh, fuck, he loves when she uses it like this, too. "Suck me. I'll feed you." He'll fill her belly just as he's filled her sweet cunt so many times. His balls ache, swollen and overfull. No matter how many times she drains him, it's never enough. He's still full, full of seed and the ache to sow it, to fuck her, breed her, put a baby in her. Not for the sake of his soul—not for any logical reason at all. Because he wants to. Because he needs to.

This won't get her with child, but it feels fucking fantastic and he never wants her to stop. He pushes deeper into her mouth, until he hits the back of her throat, then eases off gently, fucking her mouth as she sucks him, her hand firm at the base of his shaft, squeezing him, encouraging him. He reaches behind with one hand, sliding his palm down her slim body, curling over her bare mound, fingers slipping between her lips, stroking her slippery folds.

She whimpers through her nose, the sound vibrating through his cock, and he groans. Fuck, that feels amazing. Her tongue rubs the underside of his cock, wraps around the head as he draws back, licking the fluid oozing from him. Her free hand cups his overfull balls and squeezes gently.

He curses, jaw tightening, struggling not to come immediately. It feels fucking amazing as she gently kneads him, but almost too much, hovering on the edge of painful. "Easy, girl," he grunts, stroking her a little harder, one finger finding her clit.

Her legs shift wider, drawing back her folds, giving him better access, the scent of female arousal hitting him hard. His hand shakes and he pulls back from her mouth. "Fuck. Come here." She's tall but not big; he rolls them again and flips her supple body so she's on top of him, facing his cock. "Promise not to bite me, and I'll make you scream."

She promises nothing, but her mouth stretches around his length once more. He hauls her hips close and licks her firmly, the taste of her and him together melting on his tongue. He's come in her so many times he's honestly surprised she tastes like herself at all, but she does, and he loves it. He licks and licks, craving her sweetness, how she quivers when he finds her clit and latches on. Her nipples rub his abdomen as she lowers her mouth down his length, sucking harder.

She comes quickly, holding his length deep in her mouth and to her credit not biting down. He doesn't ease up, pushing two fingers deep into her, rubbing just where she likes, tongue stroking her hard little clit firmly. The noises she makes vibrate through his cock and he loves it, urging her higher, wringing pleasure from her so he can feel those sweet vibrations. He slips his fingers out of her, adding a third when he pushes them back. She's almost too tight, but she's so wet that he glides into her without resistance. He curls his fingers, pressing just where he knows she likes, her inner walls so plush and hot and wet. His tongue pulses on her clit swiftly. She hurtles over the edge and, as he promised, she screams around him.

Oh, fuck, that feeling. He comes hard, her mouth sucking at him, hand kneading his balls again, pulling from him all he has to give her. It won't sate either of them for long, but fuck, it feels amazing. Sex should be impossible for him and excruciating for her by now, but it isn't. Something about the _teas_ pushes their bodies beyond human limits, keeping him hard, keeping her wanting. He pants lightly as she slips off of him and turns, that sweet body righting itself. His girl. His.

"Still hungry." She touches her mouth to his, then rolls off the bed, tugging on his arm.

"I just fed you." He'll take her downstairs if he has to, but only if she insists.

She rolls her eyes. "Not food. Come on." She tugs on him again.

He still really doesn't want to leave the room, but if he balks any longer she may attempt to go without him, and that's something he can't handle. He sits up, hands moving reflexively to hold her body, keep her close. He can smell the combined scent of them and it calms his possessive streak slightly. Probably they won't run into anyone and even if they do, his scent is all over her—inside her. It's unmistakable.

"Stay with me," he says, watching her carefully. "Don't go wandering off."

She makes a face. "You're acting like we're going adventuring, not downstairs in my own home."

He tightens his grip on her waist, pressing his mouth to her flat belly, kissing her velvet skin softly. He hates it when she calls this place her home. Her family is here, yes, but her home is the Nomad. Her home is with him. He licks her navel, kisses just below it, where their child will soon swell. This baby will be proof she belongs with him, proof even she can't deny. He nuzzles her soft, milky skin, warm and sweet under his touch, feeling her fingers wind into his hair, stroking gently. He's always been one to trust his instincts, and right now his instincts are telling him she's bred—his seed's taken root deep within her. There's no real way to know yet, but he believes it. He rubs her thigh gently and kisses her belly once more. Her body shelters two souls now, or will soon, and that means he has to take better care of her.

Which means keeping her fed, even during the _teas_. Okay. He can do that. He doesn't want to, but he can. He climbs to his feet, touching his mouth to hers, breathing her sweet-spice scent covered in his own. "Just stay close."

She kisses him back and doesn't argue.

Sinbad unsnaps the metal bolt as she lifts the latch and they leave the room without giving a thought to clothing. His hand closes over the jutting knob of her hipbone, keeping her at his side.

The twilight house is quiet, but not silent. As they descend the stairs he hears the groans and gasps of at least two couples; they aren't in the kitchen so he doesn't care. Maeve laughs. The air is cooler out here and her soft pink nipples pebble. Sinbad brushes his knuckles over the near one, unable to stop himself. Fuck, she's gorgeous. Even without the _teas_ keeping his hands to himself is difficult; now he doesn't bother trying.

Ordinarily she'd snap at him to behave, possibly even slap him for being so forward in a public area, but under the _teas_ she does not. She presses into his touch; he cups her smooth, soft breast in his hand, loving the weight of it, how it fits perfectly in his palm. He strokes the hard nipple with his thumb and kisses her temple, his other arm firm around her, keeping her close.

Maeve kisses him softly before breaking contact, stepping away and reaching up to open a cupboard. In the twilight murk her creamy skin glows, a sweet beacon he can't ignore. Sinbad steps forward, hands curling at her hips, bringing their bodies into contact. Already half hard, he stiffens instantly when his cock touches that warm, firm ass. Thoughts of food vanish again; all he wants is to bend her over the countertop, to take her swift and hard.

She gasps and leans forward when he presses lightly at the small of her back, pure instinct guiding her movements. He groans, pushing her hips slightly harder into the wooden counter. She's so wet between her legs, and as she shifts them further apart he can smell the rich female scent of her mixed with his own saltier male musk. He's licked and kissed every inch of her, left his seed in her tight little cunt and her belly—his scent is all over her, deep within her. It marks her unmistakably as his girl. His.

"Sinbad." She hasn't denied him anything yet, but that was behind a locked door. Here they're exposed, and she can hear other people nearby as well as he can. Niall says she has no ability to say no during the _teas_, but Maeve is Maeve. Will she try?

She doesn't. Her head drops forward as she rolls herself onto her toes, lifting her hips higher against the edge of the counter, and he's right there, at the perfect height to take her as she leans over the counter. His hand curls on her hip, the other guides his cock as he slowly presses forward. Her soft folds split for him as she begins to stretch around him, and he hisses as the head of his cock enters her sweet warmth.

A sudden low, grating roar startles him, deeply male and angry. He freezes, tensing instantly for a fight, turning toward the sound. A solid bulk slams into him, knocking him to the floor, his head smacking the tiles hard enough to see stars. Maeve half-screams and whirls.

The man is human and huge, though neither fact matters to Sinbad. Big, rough hands grab Maeve's bare body and spin her back around, shoving her soft abdomen into the edge of the counter hard. He looks half crazed, intent on the heat between her legs.

Oh, no. This would be a fight no matter what, but the way the stranger pulls and shoves at Maeve, his hands hard and uncaring, sends fire flowing through Sinbad. Maeve gasps not with need but with a startled burst of pain as the man pushes her hard into the edge of the wooden counter. Fuck no. That's where Sinbad's child lies, deep and supposedly safe inside her. He's on his feet again despite the crack to his head. The world spins, but at its center is Maeve. Niall told him she can't protect herself right now. Were she herself she wouldn't want this stranger, and he's hurting her. Sinbad has to stop it.

She cries out, louder this time, struggling against the man at her back. He's big and she's in a vulnerable position, bent over the countertop, but she plants her heel on his bare toes. Sinbad can hear the crunch as they break. Her sharp elbow lands in his gut. He doubles over, grunting. Sinbad's fist meets his nose, breaking it neatly. The man howls.

From the back of the house Nessa and a pale _sìthiche _man appear, as unclothed as everyone else. Sinbad eyes them warily, the situation balanced precariously on a knife's edge. The animal urge in his body tells him to fight this new strange man, too, but he retains just enough control to stop himself. He can smell Nessa—spicy-sweet, like his Maeve, but subtly different. She's a goddess in or out of clothing, tall, imperious, gorgeous creamy-coffee skin and a softer build than his Maeve.

Nessa's dark eyes rake over them, instantly assessing the situation. She moves swiftly and with authority, pulling Maeve's huddled body into her arms. She holds her tight and backs swiftly away from the big man now doubled over, blood leaking from his ruined nose.

"Put him down cellar," she orders, pointing to a closed door.

Something in Sinbad wants to rebel. He doesn't want to touch the man. He wants Maeve back in his arms, where she belongs. But she's hugging Nessa, her eyes shadowed, and he doesn't want to start another fight. He has a feeling if he approaches the two women now it may provoke an attack by the stranger _sìthiche_. So he obeys, opening the door to the cellar storerooms and helping the pale _sìthiche_ propel the big man down the steps. He latches the door firmly behind him.

"That ought to cool him down. We'll let him up after the _teas_." Nessa strokes Maeve's tangled curls, touches her pale cheek. "Are you all right, love?"

Maeve nods wordlessly. Her eyes are big, her face pale, but she's unhurt. "Just startled."

Nessa kisses her gently. "No harm done, then." She releases her, and to Sinbad's relief Maeve returns swiftly to his side. He wraps her tight in his arms, no longer interested in fucking her here, just in getting them back behind a locked door without any further trouble.

Nessa watches, a crease of concern appearing between her elegant brows. "You shouldn't have been able to fight him. You know that, right?"

Maeve shrugs helplessly.

"She's human," the stranger says, stepping close behind Ness. He sets his hand on her bare hip.

"Shouldn't matter. It never has before." Nessa stares for another moment before shaking her head. "Might be an idea to stay in your room for the rest of the _teas_ if you don't want any other partners."

No kidding. There's a lot Sinbad doesn't understand about the _teas_. He can stand here and appreciate Nessa's beauty without going mad with lust and fighting her _sìthiche_ partner for her, but apparently other men don't have that sort of control. Maeve shouldn't have been able to fight the giant man who tried to cover her, either. But she did.

The pale _sìthiche _man kisses Nessa. She smiles and backs toward the sitting room. He follows her happily, Sinbad and Maeve instantly forgotten.

Alone once more, Sinbad inhales a deep breath. "Are you okay?" He places his palm gently at her lower abdomen, where he can feel a slight indentation in her skin, a thin line the sharp edge of the counter made when she was pushed and held roughly against it. He rubs softly. All his instincts tell him his child is in there, and he apologizes silently to it for the rough treatment. He has to learn to take better care of Maeve, for all their sakes.

Maeve touches the back of his hand and nods. She brushes her nose against his. "Kiss me, please."

Gladly. Always. He kisses her mouth, tasting her bitter moment of fear on her breath as she exhales. It's gone in an instant. She's okay. This time.

"How were you able to fight him?" He knows perfectly well that she should have accepted the big man as willingly as she accepts him. That's the point of the _teas_. It brings the animal in them to the fore, stimulating their fertility and desire to breed. She should have let him.

She shrugs again, as helpless to answer as she was when Nessa asked. "I didn't want him."

Warmth blooms in him. She shouldn't be able to make that choice right now, but she did, and she chose him. "I love you, firebrand." He kisses her gently. She continues to surprise him, and he can't help feeling just a little bit smug. He fought for his girl, but he didn't have to. Even high as hell on the _teas_ she knows what she wants, and she wants him. "Let's do as Ness suggested and get back upstairs." Behind a locked door, where he doesn't have to worry. The big man is probably a perfectly reasonable guy under other circumstances, but Sinbad doubts he'll be invited back for another _teas_ after this.

Maeve bundles a round loaf of bread, a fat wedge of cheese, and some apples into a linen cloth, and they return swiftly upstairs. Sinbad doesn't truly relax until both the wooden latch and metal bolt are secured. He has no idea how long they have until the _teas_ releases them, but he's not letting Maeve back downstairs again until it does. She fought Sinbad's attacker, but he was big enough to overpower her if Sinbad had been knocked out. He has to take more care with her.

"You're sure he didn't hurt you?" He pulls her onto his lap, holding her tight. In his mind he can still see the other man's big, harsh hands, how hard he shoved her into that countertop. He traces the faint reddish line low on her abdomen where the edge of the wooden counter bit into her. That's where his child is. He touches his lips to her temple. Unborn babies are fragile things; women miscarry often. But he has no idea whether something like this could cause a miscarriage. There's so much he doesn't know, and it frustrates him. He hates uncertainty.

"I'm fine. I'm tough, remember?" She smiles and kisses him lightly before slipping off his lap and breaking open the loaf. No one here has been baking; it's a day or two old, at least. Southern flatbread would be rock-hard; this is still edible, if stale. She wraps her heavy, down-filled bedcover around herself as she eats, cocooning herself in warmth. He chuckles and wraps himself around that, holding the warm bundle of her close. Having her in his arms calms him, easing some of his uncertainty. He can't be sure his child is all right—can't even be sure there _is_ a child, though his instincts tell him there is. But he can be sure of Maeve's body, warm and solid in his arms. He can be sure of her love, and that she'll do everything in her power to help save his soul from Scratch. He holds her close and breathes her in, hot sugar-spice, tropical and lush. The blanket is soft against him, but not as soft as her skin.

"Are you cold?" He doubts it. She was raised in the north, and the house around them is snug. Even he isn't cold, though he relishes the heat of her _teas_-warmed skin.

"No, but I like blankets. And you." She offers him the apple she's already bitten. He holds her hand steady and bites over her tooth marks. Yes, he's learning that she likes to be wrapped tightly in his arms or, as now, a blanket, the firm pressure somehow comforting. He's more than happy to hold her as hard as she wants, as long as she wants. He eats bread and cheese, watching her as the last of the twilight fades into night, the room swathed in shadow.

"Do you have a candle? Or one of those magic light things?"

She nods, mouth full, and climbs from his arms. From the chest at the foot of her bed she retrieves a smooth glass orb. She places it on the little table next to the bed and touches it gently with one fingertip. Soft golden light blooms.

"I want some of those for the Nomad."

She smiles as she curls back in his arms, bare skin to bare skin. "Not a good idea. Blown glass is really fragile. They'd shatter in the first strong wind."

"The kids don't break them?" As a child he broke just about everything there was to break. Doubar was worse, from what he's heard.

She tips her head to the side, considering. He loves the play of soft light on her throat, her firm, soft breasts. "Not as often as you'd expect. They're good kids."

He pulls her closer, one hand low on her belly. Will this child be good, as she claims the children of Breakwater are? Or a little hellion, as he suspects she was? Clumsy but cheerful, like Doubar? Or curious and prone to mischief, like him? He rubs his thumb across her skin, so warm, velvet-soft. She trembles in his arms, just once, a sharp quiver rolling through her. He believes there's a baby in there already, but he recognizes that he can't really know for sure. Not yet. "When will you know?"

Maeve swallows hard. "A moon." She places her palm over his and squeezes his hand. "There's a spell, but before about four weeks it's unreliable."

A moon. It seems an eternity to wait, and yet will likely feel like no time at all once they're back on the Nomad. "You are. I already know."

Her dark eyes glow like amber in the golden light. "I know."

At least their instincts are telling them the same thing. He kisses her mouth gently. "I'm going to take care of you." Whether she wants him to or not.

She sighs, sounding resigned. "I know," she says again.

Good or bad, their lives will never be the same. He thinks about the tribe of children running wild here, and what they'll think of the new addition. Not much, probably; they're used to babies showing up at regular intervals. With a sudden start, he realizes that with all the women of Breakwater participating in the _teas_, there could potentially be four babies on the way soon, not just Maeve's. His body jerks slightly with shock.

"What?" She shifts far enough away to see his eyes and touches his cheek lightly.

He shakes his head a little. "Just imagining the four of you pregnant at once. I'm...a little scared." Or a lot.

She laughs, bright and amused. "Unlikely. Wren's nursing, which means she probably won't conceive, and Nessa's never quickened. _Sìthiche_ aren't as fertile as humans, one reason there are so few of them left." She snickers. "But that would be funny."

Funny isn't the word he would use. Sinbad isn't sure the fathers would survive that particular four-way pregnancy. Even just Maeve and Keely would be bad enough. He has a feeling he and Maeve will be here often over the next nine months, both as a haven from prying eyes and so Keely can watch Maeve's health. He doesn't mind. He likes Antoine and Niall more and more as he gets to know them, and he's glad Maeve has women she can talk to, women she doesn't automatically feud with. Gods know that isn't the case back at home.

"Nessa was with a man."

"Aye." Maeve looks at him curiously and steals a piece of cheese from his hand. "So?"

"What about Dermott?"

"It's the _teas_. Most couples don't keep to themselves. Even Keel and Antoine don't always." She shrugs it off. "And Dermott's been very clear that he doesn't want her to wait for him. No one knows how long it will take to break Rumina's curse." She bites her lower lip.

"Hey, don't do that." He kisses her swiftly, thumb on her chin, pulling her lip free of her teeth. He doesn't want her to be sad, to worry about her missing brother or the woman he suspects is still waiting for him despite the _teas_. He presses her back into the mattress, done with food, hungry for something else now. Her lips taste like apple and the strange sugar-fire of the _teas_, and he loves it. "I'm not sharing," he says firmly, nipping her lush lower lip as he settles on top of her. "Do you hear me? I don't care what _sìthichean_ do. You're mine now."

Ordinarily he'd expect a sharp lecture about how no one can own a Celt, but not here, not now. She wraps her arms under his, short fingernails digging possessively into the meat of his back. "If that's how it is, I'm not sharing, either." Those gorgeous dark eyes stare into his, hot and intense. "Not with Talia. Not with anyone."

"Done." His mouth locks with hers once more. That's not how things work in his world, but if that's what she wants, if that's what it takes to keep her, he'll give it. He'll give her anything.

* * *

"Ow. _Fuck, ow." _He stops trying to move, giving up and flopping back on the mattress. This is the most comfortable bed he's ever slept in by far and all other beds are ruined for him. But his body explodes in pain every time he moves even a little, and a massive headache pounds behind his eyes.

"Stop jiggling the bed!" Maeve hides her face under a slender arm. "Just leave me alone to die."

He strokes her wrist gently with one fingertip, the only movement he can make without his body erupting in pain. "I swear I felt fine when we crashed just a couple of hours ago."

"Welcome to the aftereffects of the _teas_."

"The _teas_ can burn in hell." They fell asleep just before sunset. Now it's full night and the _teas_ has left them painful, aching messes. Their human bodies weren't meant to handle three days of near-constant fucking and would have given out long before, but the _teas_ pushed them beyond what they could otherwise take, keeping them needy and wanting, full of desire and free of pain—until now. Sinbad feels like he's weathered the worst storm of his life while going ten rounds with a minotaur. His head throbs and pounds with a splitting headache, squeezing down on his poor brain. Every muscle aches, and his cock feels like he's been jacked off with sandpaper. He's also ravenously hungry and thirsty, and his body shakes with fatigue when he tries to move.

Maeve curses viciously. "I fucking swear to all the gods, Sinbad, if you don't keep still, you can sleep on the floor!"

"I can't help it!" The tremors in his muscles are none of his doing.

"Figure it out!" She whimpers and pulls her pillow over her head.

He wants a gallon of cold water to drink. A stack of piping hot flatbread, and the slow-roasted, highly-spiced goat's meat Omar of Basra is famous for serving, thinly-sliced right off the spit, dripping with juice. A steaming bath, and a bottle of Antoine's whiskey for his head. Most of all, though, he wants to never, ever move again.

"We are never doing this again," he groans. "Let _sìthichean _fuck like _sìthichean_. I'm out."

She moves far swifter than he thinks he could. Her hands find his body and she shoves him hard. He hits the wooden floor with a cold thud, pain exploding through him.

"What the hell did you do that for?" He groans in pain, holding his poor head in his hands. He can still feel the tender spot where it cracked against the kitchen floor last night. Or the night before. Whenever that was.

"I warned you." She buries herself under her red blanket. "'S my bed, anyway." Her voice emerges muffled and faint. "Fuck, ow."

Sinbad forces himself into a sitting position, propping himself up with his arms as he levers his body upright. She's not a big woman but damn, can she sprawl. She's lying on her belly, wrapped in her down-filled bedcover, long, bare legs and arms draped over most of the large bed. Despite how awful he feels, he has to laugh.

"Shut up. I'm never moving again."

"You just wait until I dump you out of my bunk sometime."

"You wouldn't dare."

She's probably right, but she doesn't need to know that. "You don't have any whiskey up here, do you?"

"Trunk."

He'd roll his eyes if his head didn't hurt so much. Of course she does. He crawls to the end of the bed and digs through the odds and ends in her trunk until he finds the little glass bottle. He knows perfectly well that too much will only make him feel worse later, but he'd rather put off the headache until the rest of his body feels better than deal with it now. He throws back three quick shots, just managing not to cough or choke this time. His stomach immediately churns and roils, threatening to bring it back up.

"You shouldn't shoot whiskey on an empty stomach," Maeve says, ten seconds too late.

He forces the sick feeling down, and a moment later the sweet warmth of the alcohol fires through him. Oh, that's good. Much better. His breaths ease and deepen as the intense, squeezing pain in his skull dissipates. The rest of him still aches, but it's tolerable. He squints around the soft spinning in his head. Concentrating is difficult, but he persists. He can have all the water he wants if he can make it across the corridor, and he can also have a hot bath if he manages to bring Maeve with him. They've eaten everything in the room so food will have to wait until they can survive a trip down the stairs, but three out of four wishes isn't bad.

"Maeve." He strokes the sole of her foot, the only thing he can reach from his spot on the floor.

"Touch me again and lose your hand, sailor."

He ignores the warning. "I want a bath. Don't you?"

"Sinbad, it's the middle of the night!"

"Didn't stop us last time." He tugs lightly on the corner of her blanket. "Come on. I found the whiskey, and you can make hot water. I know you're hurting."

"Being unconscious helps with that." She groans, finally pulling her head free of her blanket and levering herself slowly to a sitting position. "I swear, if I knew a sleep spell by heart I'd cast it on you now."

"You don't have the energy." He hopes. Or maybe he doesn't. Sleeping through the worst of this _teas_ hangover sounds like a brilliant idea, but he can't sleep without addressing this pain first. Whiskey alone will do the trick, but he's not willing to deal with the next hangover that would leave him with.

Maeve winces, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed, one hand holding her head, the other low on her belly, where he's spent the last three days deep inside her. Fuck. If his cock feels sandpapered, he can't imagine how she must feel. "If you get your hot bath, then will you let me sleep?"

"Promise." She'll feel better after a hot bath, too, whether she admits it or not.

"Fine." She slides off the mattress, steadying herself with a hand on the end of the bed. "Give me that." She takes the bottle from him.

"I thought you said drinking whiskey on an empty stomach wasn't good?" He forces himself to his feet, groaning with the effort. His head spins and he staggers until he plants his feet further apart in a solid stance.

"I'm used to it." She swallows, and laughs. "You're already drunk."

He is not. Just...warm. Slightly fuzzy. He wants to kiss her smart mouth, but his lips feel just as sandpapered as his cock. He takes the bottle back and drinks again. The whiskey smarts and burns, but the fuzzy warmth intensifies.

"No more. I'm cutting you off." She takes the bottle away, then wraps herself in her heavy red blanket. "Okay."

That's probably best. His stomach wants food and water, and isn't very happy with him for that last swig. He pauses at the door.

"It's okay." Her voice softens, and she touches his bare arm gently. "The _teas_ is over. People will be back to normal."

Yeah, he knows that intellectually. But he remembers all too vividly what happened in the kitchen, and it makes him wary.

"Besides, this was your idea. I wanted to sleep." She draws the bolt back and lifts the latch.

The corridor is silent and dark, as it should be in the middle of the night. They cross it swiftly, shutting the door of the bathing room behind them. The glow lights affixed to the walls brighten instantly, and Sinbad blinks in the sudden warm light.

Maeve drops her blanket to the floor and opens the metal valve to start the flow of water into the tub. Their last bath turned into an intense wet fuck, soaking the tiled floor, but sex is the last thing Sinbad wants right now so her blanket is probably safe. He turns on the tap at the washbasin, filling his cupped hands with icy water and drinking swiftly. He can't fill his belly with food so he fills it with water instead, until his stomach feels cold and heavy. Turning to Maeve, he observes her in the golden light.

She's covered in bruises. He sucks in a quick breath as he stares. He remembers how shocked he was the first time he saw Maeve bruise—how deeply livid, how dark and damaged her skin looked. Firouz's explanations about blood vessels and skin tone did nothing to lessen the shock, and it does nothing to lessen his guilt now as he brushes his thumb ever so lightly over the fingerprints scattered like large dark freckles over her hips, evidence of where his hands have been. He didn't realize how rough he was being at the time, and shame fills him. He promised not to hurt her, but he has.

She shuts off the flow of water and dips her fingers in the tub; a moment later steam begins to rise. She straightens with a tiny grunt of effort, pushing her tangled red curls from her eyes. "Happy now?"

"No." Not at all. Her creamy breasts are bruised, nipples red and raw. He turns her body fully toward him, intent on seeing all the damage he caused.

She looks at him, the stark expression on his face, the direction of his gaze. "Seriously? You're upset about that?" She snorts. "Everyone on this fucking island looks the same right now, I guarantee it. Look at yourself."

He does, assessing his own body as she steps into the hot water. She has to grip the rim of the tub as she balances on one foot, then the other, her knees shaking under her weight. He's beside her, arm outstretched in case she collapses, but she lowers herself into the water without mishap, hissing as it envelops her sore body.

"Fuck, that hurts."

He opens his mouth to apologize.

"_Do not_ say you're sorry." She holds her hand up, silencing him. "You couldn't help it, and I don't want to hear it. I told you. Antoine told you. This is all part of the _teas_. You thought you could somehow will yourself not to succumb, and now you know better."

He shuts up. Now is not the time to argue with her.

Besides, she's at least partially correct. His skin is darker than hers and doesn't show bruises as starkly, but she's left her mark on him, too. He's bruised here and there on his torso, flat nipples raw. He can't see his back but he can definitely feel where her nails have dug into his flesh. His cock and balls are a purple, angry mess, and he thinks twice about submerging them in hot water, but he'll have to sooner or later so half-drunk on whiskey seems like a good time. He climbs carefully into the tub behind her, just as shaky as he transfers his weight from one foot to another.

And oh, the hot water is both heaven and hell. He curses softly, staring at the graceful line of her back, her supple spine, as the warmth bleeds into his muscles. His genitals feel like they're on fire and the sting is almost enough to force him to his feet again...except he just isn't sure he would make it. He swears louder.

"Just give it a minute. No one ever died from the _teas_." She draws her knees to her chest and rests her head on them, sucking in her own sharp breath of pain as the water reaches further between her legs. "I mean, except in a fight. That's happened." She reaches for the bar of sweet soap studded with bits of dried mint and lavender.

"Can Keely fix this?" He brushes a pale lilac bloom on her throat. It will be indigo soon, like a scholar's spilled ink.

"Why should she? It's just a bruise. You were pretty proud of yourself when you put it there." She turns sideways in the tub, lathering her hands. To his surprise, she puts them gently on him rather than herself. He doesn't want sex right now—he feels like he'll never want it again, in fact—but oh, that feels good. She's tender with him, impossibly gentle as she washes away the dried sweat and their combined fluids. While part of him regrets the necessity of ridding themselves of the scent and taste of sex, he's not an idiot. Celts may be barbarians to his people, but Maeve likes to be clean and now that the _teas _is over will kill him for even suggesting going near anyone smelling of sex.

He pulls her close, mindful of his painful cock, aware that the syrupy, spicy-sugar scent of her has gone, leaving her smelling only like herself again. He loved it while it lasted but he loves her like this, too—not nearly so sweet, but fresh and green and alive, like her island home. He holds her as they soak the soreness from their battered bodies. They're fully themselves again, and something about that makes it all the sweeter when she presses against him, letting him run soapy hands along her skin.

And now that he's fully himself again, even half-drunk, even near blind with exhaustion, he has to face a truth he doesn't like at all. "Sweetling, we have to go back home tomorrow. If you show up bruised like that, everyone will know. And Dermott will kill me." Doubar might, too. Rongar would help. She seriously looks like she was ravaged, and not in a good way.

She shifts in his arms, turning sideways, her lovely face tired and unhappy. "I hate this."

"I know." He hates it, too. Everything about it. He hates the forced secrecy. Hates that his brother is so angry at her, and about to be angrier. That _her_ brother is angry at him, and left in a temper. That he lost control of himself enough to mark her so starkly without even knowing it. She can tell him all she wants that bruises don't really hurt, but it won't change how he feels. He hates this dark reminder that she's vulnerable in this violent world. Her attacker the other night didn't leave a lasting mark, but they live a rough, sometimes brutal life. What about the next time, or the one after that?

In this position he can see the inside of her thighs, even more marked up than her hips. He touches her with gentle hands, urging her to part her legs so he can see. The tender inside of her slim thighs are one big violet bruise, the soft folds of her sex angry and inflamed, and he's horrified to see a touch of blood in the water.

"Don't touch." She shifts away from his hands, tensing when he gets too close.

"I won't." He doesn't want her touching his cock either. Not for at least a moon. Maybe a year. "Fuck, I'm sorry, firebrand."

"I told you not to say that."

"Well, I am."

"I've done this before. I knew what was going to happen." She shrugs away his guilt. "I chose to be here."

Because of him. To help him. He places his palm lightly on her lower belly, where his instincts tell him his child grows. It's flat and firm with muscle, a little concave at the moment as she hasn't eaten recently, but the spark of life hides within, he's sure of it.

"How do we keep you healthy now?"

"By not waking me up in the middle of the night, for one." Her words are hard but her voice is soft, sleepy now that they've soaked the worst of the aches away.

"I'm serious."

"So am I." She fights back a yawn and shifts so she can see his eyes. "Seriously, Sinbad, you can't go all soft on me now. I can't handle it." She's in earnest, her dark eyes solemn as she watches him. "And you can't coddle me—do you hear me? Not if you want this to stay a secret. Nothing can change."

He knows. He knows, and yet he didn't quite realize before just what that meant. He wasn't thinking past the _teas_, trying to tackle just one thing at a time. Now reality slowly settles on him, and he wishes he had that bottle of whiskey back. She's going to be pregnant on his ship, living their rough life, without any considerations at all. Without even being able to acknowledge what this is doing to her. She'll have to hide any sickness or weakness being pregnant causes, will have to hide her belly as it grows.

Fuck. Hiding her bruises now seems like child's play in comparison.

And a time will come, well before Samhain, when she won't be able to hide it anymore. Something tears inside him as he realizes it. "You'll have to stay here."

"_No._" She's uncompromising. "I wasn't made to sit still. Besides, my home is on the Nomad. Isn't that what you keep saying?"

Yes. Yes, it is. And it always will be. But there's a heavy feeling in his gut that has nothing to do with the amount of cold water he drank. If Rumina and Scratch learn that she's carrying his child her life is forfeit, which means she has to hide her pregnancy. There's no other option. And the time may come—probably _will _come—when that means parting from her, at least for a while. Whether she wants to admit it or not.

* * *

_Stay safe and healthy out there, guys! Stay home, read fanfiction!_


	12. Chapter 12

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Despite his dark thoughts, Sinbad falls asleep the minute he curls around Maeve's soft body in her big bed. The unnatural warmth of the_ teas _has calmed but he still loves the sweetness of her natural body heat, the firm pressure of her back against his chest as he spoons himself around her. Soon enough they'll have to return to the Nomad and everything that means, including telling their friends that she isn't willing to bear his child and save his soul from Scratch. For just a little while longer, he wants to hold her unresisting body close and rest, content in the knowledge that she's his. As much as she can be, as much as she's willing to belong to anyone.

The _teas_ was an overwhelming experience. He doesn't regret it, but as he kisses her smooth shoulder and nestles down amid her damp, clean hair, he has no wish to do it again. He absolutely understands how she feels now. Neither of them deals well with being out of control, and the _teas_ wrests that control from them. Even if she hadn't been attacked, even if it didn't leave them in such pain, he doubts he would want to do this again. It's just as well that she feels the same.

They're not usually late sleepers, but the sun is well up by the time they rouse again, sore and fumbling but not quite as bad as last night. His head pounds and even the dim light of a dismal, rainy morning slices through him like knives.

"I told you to take it easy with the whiskey," Maeve grumbles without heat as she pulls a deep blue cotton chemise over her head. He doesn't even want to guess the price of such a garment. Indian cotton is rare even in his part of the world, difficult to pick and card, and he'd be shocked to find it here, so far from civilization, except that nothing in this house surprises him anymore.

"I can't tell if I want to die because of the whiskey or because of the _teas_." He struggles into his own clothes. The rough linen rasps his raw nipples and rubs the scratches on his back but at least his _sirwal_ is loose enough not to chafe his cock.

"Why should it be one or the other, if you were stupid enough to mix the two?" She rubs her bleary eyes. "Come on. Food will help."

The whiskey helped him sleep last night, so he refuses to regret it. His stomach is queasy and he isn't sure it wants food, but his body is starving even still, so he stumbles down the stairs with her, fuzzy and sleep-numb. His mouth feels awful, tacky and dry, and he badly wants some water.

Subdued voices lead them to the kitchen. Keely and Niall are there, moving slowly as they prepare food. Nessa sits on a stool at the high work table, slumped over it, head buried in her folded arms.

When she sees them, Keely immediately stops what she's doing. "Are you okay?" She takes Maeve by the hands and looks her up and down, keen green eyes assessing her quickly. "You look okay." Some of her bruises are clearly visible in the short, sleeveless chemise, but Keely's marked up even worse, blatant handprints on her pale, wiry arms, and she takes no notice of Maeve's blue speckles.

"I'm fine." Maeve squeezes her hands.

"Ness said there was an altercation."

Sinbad glances swiftly toward the door to the cellar.

Keely follows his gaze. "We let him out a bit ago and I patched him up. He was pretty embarrassed."

"I'm fine, truly. Promise." Maeve kisses her friend gently. "We stopped him, so there was no harm done."

After a last searching glance, Keely nods and releases her.

"You shouldn't have been able to," Nessa grumbles from within her curled arms. Maeve fetches a basket of eggs from the far counter.

"Seriously," Keely agrees. "Sinbad, yes. You?" She shakes her head.

"Well, I did, and it's over now, so I don't see the point in dwelling on it." Maeve hands the basket to Sinbad along with a big wooden bowl. "You're no cook, but I think you can handle this."

"I'll do my best."

Niall shifts over, giving him space at the tall work table. He eyes his baggy _sirwal_ enviously. "I want trousers like that."

Poor man's wearing northern trousers. They look like high-quality woolen broadcloth, but the tight cut around the crotch can't be comfortable today. "I'll bring you some," Sinbad promises. For Antoine, too. They have to deal with this shit four times a year; it's the least he can do.

"Here." Keely sets steaming mugs in front of them. "Drink. It tastes awful but it helps with the aches." She places one in front of Nessa's glossy curls. The _sìthiche_ doesn't move.

Sinbad picks up the mug and sniffs. He smells fennel and mint, and other herbs he can't place. He sips. It's bitter and not good, exactly, but his stomach accepts the warmth and the herbs better than he would have expected. He drinks, then begins cracking eggs.

"You sort of get used to it," Niall says. He's juicing a sack of lemons and bitter oranges. "The aftereffects, I mean. Hurting in places you didn't even know you had, and waking up so hungry you're angry at everyone you see." He mixes the sour, bitter juice with generous drizzles of honey, then adds it to a glass pitcher of ice-cold water. Sinbad likes _qatarmizat_ and is thirsty enough to welcome something so cold and refreshing, even as chilly rain pours outside. The kitchen is snug and warm, the fire in the open stove crackling cheerfully.

Nessa groans as she pulls herself upright. She drifts to the far counter, somehow still looking elegant, gathering a bowl of fresh dark greens to wash and chop. Keely sprinkles salt generously into Sinbad's bowl of cracked eggs, stepping around Maeve, who is slicing ripe peaches. Once again he has to marvel at the heaps of fresh food at their fingertips. Where it comes from and how they afford it he doesn't know, but he's glad Maeve gets some variety here, unlike their usual diet of barley gruel, salted or pickled fish, and weak ale. They eat a little better in port, but fresh meat and fruit are expensive and usually beyond their means unless they manage to hunt or gather it themselves—a difficult task within a city.

Maeve especially loves fresh fruit, so he's grateful for this mysterious ability to provide it. When he and his crew are hosted by royalty she often gets to indulge, but even the richest eastern sultan can't make peaches grow out of season. _Sìthichean_ apparently can? If so, he can't blame them for keeping the secret to themselves, considering how humans have treated them.

Niall makes two large pitchers of _qatarmizat_ before pouring mugs full and clearing the table. Sinbad gives the big bowl of cracked eggs to Keely and helps. "Where's everyone else?"

"Most people were only here for the _teas_," Niall says, drawing tall stools up to the table. "They'll leave as soon as they wake. They've children and lives to get back to. And Ant and Wren are—"

The front door slams open.

"—back," he finishes, as everyone in the room winces from the sound.

"Brace for impact," Keely mutters, stirring the giant pan of cooking eggs.

"Mama!" a high, piping voice cries. A herd of pounding feet vibrate the house.

A second later four small bodies rush into the kitchen, followed by Antoine and Wren. She holds her youngest on her hip, her two-year-old by the hand. Antoine has his younger daughter in his arms as the elder launches herself at Keely, chattering in their native tongue.

Three little dark-haired boys converge on Niall, who squeezes the eldest warmly on his skinny shoulder before kissing the two younger, upturned faces. The noise created by seven children shocks Sinbad a little, as does the way they constantly shift and move, like wriggling puppies, never still. Niall's six-year-old dives for Maeve after accepting his father's greeting.

"Maeve! Maeve!"

Sinbad wants to stop the boy—she's exhausted and in pain, after all—but she pushes in front of him with a little shake of her head and he desists. Declan throws himself at her with blissful trust and she catches him easily, hoisting him into her arms.

"You know, you're getting too big to carry around like this." She makes no move to put him down.

The boy has his father's silky dark hair, and it wants cutting. He pushes his bangs from his face with a dirty, impatient hand. "I lost a tooth yesterday!" He pulls down his lower lip and shows her the gap. He's already missing two others, including a top front tooth, and speaks with a comically heavy lisp.

"Congratulations." She frowns and shifts his little body onto one hip, taking his chin with her free hand. "You also got yourself a fat lip. What happened?"

"Bran hit me. That's how I lost the tooth." He grins proudly.

Wren eyes her eldest boy with reproach. He's his father in miniature, and he shrugs, unrepentant. Their four-year-old brother laughs.

"I hope you didn't give Bree any trouble." Niall lifts the four-year-old from the table, ignoring the slices of peach grasped in each small hand.

"Not _very_ much," the eldest boy says.

"I did. A lot." Declan grins cheerfully, showing the gaping holes in his smile. "She made me sleep in the barn."

"You should always sleep in the barn. You snore."

"I do not!"

"And drool. Like a big slobbery dog."

Declan kicks his bare foot at his older brother, but he's too far away to make contact. Brandon sticks out his tongue.

"Enough." Wren's voice isn't loud, but she's instantly obeyed. She's not imposing like Maeve or Keely but her boys obviously know who the boss is. "You had three days of play, and now it's time to get back to a routine. Bran, Dex, speaking of barns, I want you to go out and do your chores. Take Rory with you, and watch him this time. If he comes back bleeding you're cleaning it up."

"Me, too?" Antoine's older daughter looks hopeful.

"Go on." Keely releases her. "But don't be all day about it. You have lessons after."

The ensuing grumbling is fairly good-natured as the kids head out the kitchen door, heedless of the rain. Lily waves solemnly to them over her father's shoulder. Her tiny wings flutter before resettling down her back.

"Wanna go," the two-year-old protests.

"I'll take you out later," Niall promises, cutting a small chunk of cheese and giving it to him. He draws another stool up to the table for Wren, who sits gratefully. She lifts her face toward his and he kisses her forehead gently, with more tenderness than Sinbad is used to witnessing between a man and a woman. He knew Niall must adore her—he gave up his life, his entire world for her, after all. Seeing the proof of that devotion is a little different. He really does love her.

Keely brings a big wooden bowl full of cooked eggs to the table. Antoine follows with a platter of fried sausage in one hand, Lily in the other.

"Is that everything? Because once I sit down, I'm not getting up for at least a week." Keely surveys the table and nods to herself before plopping onto a stool.

Everyone is ravenous. There's plenty of Keely's herbal brew and the tart-sweet citrus _qatarmizat_, hot eggs cooked with dark greens, sausage, hard yellow cheese, ripe sliced peaches and tiny wild strawberries. No bread, but baking leavened bread takes time, and Sinbad doubts anyone was willing to begin the task early this morning. They're used to the _teas_, but that doesn't mean it's any easier on their bodies.

His stomach was unhappy with him earlier but it feels calmer after drinking some of Keely's herbal brew, and even better once he feeds it. He touches Maeve's back lightly as she sits next to him, all the adults crowded around the work table, three with small children in their laps. She smiles, more at ease now than he thinks he's ever seen her before. This is her family, her second home. Were it not for Rumina, she and Dermott would probably live here, part of a large and loving household. She might even have nieces or nephews to add to the chaos.

"Did you find another neighbor willing to take the kids?" Maeve asks. Sinbad watches her out of the corner of his eye as she eats. Everyone here knows better than to stint themselves during the _teas_, but apparently that doesn't matter. They all eat as if they've never seen food before.

"This time." Antoine rolls his eyes. "She may not again. Same as the last one."

"There's a village on the main island, just a quick row from here," Maeve tells Sinbad between bites. "That's where the kids go during the _teas_."

"We hope they continue to, anyway," Niall says with a grimace. "Bran is pretty good except when Dex provokes him. Mia and Rory are something else, though, and they're old enough to start getting into real trouble now."

Antoine offers Lily a morsel of cooked egg. "They were born two days apart. They're like twins. It's a little creepy how in sync they are."

"It's not creepy, it's cute," Maeve protests.

Ant offers her the skeptical look Sinbad has seen so many times on her own face. "Cute. Sure. Tell me that after you've been woken from a dead sleep, both their faces inches from yours."

Nessa snorts. "At least you know who her _céile_ will be, so you have plenty of time to get used to the idea."

Antoine looks pained.

Keely shakes her head. "Nah. They're too much like siblings. That'd be like me fucking Dermott." She wrinkles her nose. "Or Maeve with Ant. Just...ew."

Antoine grins. "Too tall. No offense, baby girl. I like a woman I can manhandle." His hand rises; Sinbad's positive he's about to playfully smack the curve of Keely's ass hanging over the edge of her seat.

"Touch me and die." Her head doesn't rise from her plate.

"Not while I'm eating." Nessa shoots her brother a disgusted look. Antoine gives her one back, but desists.

"Did Bree really say she wouldn't take the kids back?" Niall pulls the stem from a berry before offering it to the two-year-old on his lap. His son refuses, turning his head away.

"Not in so many words." Wren shifts the baby in her arms to a more comfortable position and returns to her food. All the parents here seem to have mastered the art of eating with one hand, a child in the other.

Nessa's face turns dark. "We used to have elders—grandparents to care for children during the _teas_. Not anymore."

Wren smiles gently. "The next generation will have them again." It's a hopeful wish; nobody seems to want to argue with her.

"If the _teas_ doesn't kill us first." Antoine rubs the bridge of his nose. Lily laughs and pokes his cheek with a sticky little finger.

Keely snickers. "Don't tell me you're getting soft, old man."

"Hush, woman." He grins and kisses his baby. "Don't make me call you old the next time you complain about being pregnant."

She makes a face at him before returning to her breakfast.

Sinbad hides a grin in his mug. These are good people, and they all obviously care about each other. He's glad Maeve has them in her life. For so long he thought she was alone in the world, except for her bird. Now he knows better. She can't be with her people all the time, but they're here, and they love her. He absolutely believes that knowledge has kept her strong during her long hunt for Rumina.

Maeve's eyes meet his, open and warm—content. Happy. Her smile steals his breath. After all they've experienced together the past few days, he's surprised just that simple smile can make him feel so much. But it's Maeve. Nothing about her should surprise him anymore. He touches her gently, resting a soft palm on the graceful curve of her lower back. With any luck, in nine moons she'll also have a baby to care for, just as her friends do. A son, like Wren has, or a daughter, like Keely. To his surprise, the thought doesn't scare him as much as it once did. He's seen these people face the reality of raising children in a land full of strife and warfare—hell, Antoine's people have been hunted to near-extinction, but he and Keely built a family regardless of the danger. He must fear for his daughters in this uncertain world, he _must_. If he can stand to raise a new generation despite that fear, if Niall can, then Sinbad can, too.

He strokes the soft cotton at Maeve's back with his thumb, relishing this quiet moment to be with her before they have to return to the Nomad and everything that means. He has no doubt she'll want to visit Breakwater often during the next nine moons, and even if she didn't he'd insist. She loves his crew, their family on the Nomad, but he and his men are clueless when it comes to pregnancy and babies. Her women here will be much better able to help her.

Right now, Keely's staring at him with an odd expression in her strange green eyes.

"What?" He's still cautious around her, unsure where he stands. She didn't want Maeve to agree to the Tam Lin Protocol for a host of reasons and he's not sure she likes him at all, but she hasn't put up a fuss about his presence since his first visit and he doesn't want to push.

Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment she looks just like Firouz when he squints at a particularly troublesome scientific conundrum. "I still want to know how Maeve was able to push away that giant lug of a Celt. And how you and Ronan didn't come to blows over her. Or Nessa, for that matter." She turns her sharp green gaze on Antoine's sister.

"Hell if I know. It was the _teas_. My memory is fuzzy." Nessa drops her spoon and rubs her forehead, frowning. "I remember hearing Maeve scream, so I headed for the sound and Ronan followed. The guy was basically down already, bleeding all over the floor."

Keely rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I had to clean that up this morning."

Shit. Sinbad wasn't in any state of mind to think about that when it happened.

Nor was anyone else, apparently. Neither Nessa nor Maeve apologize. "All I did," Nessa says, closing her eyes as she tries to remember, "was pull Maeve out of the middle, and had the guys put him down cellar for safekeeping."

"Which would make perfect sense normally." Keely frowns. "But Sinbad's ire was already up. When Ronan appeared there should have been another fight."

Sinbad struggles to think back. He remembers being wary of the _sìthiche_ man with Nessa. Certainly he didn't want him near Maeve. But he wasn't poised to attack the man out of hand. He can feel Nessa and Keely observing him carefully and it unnerves him a little. He usually doesn't mind attention, especially the attention of lovely women, but he feels uncomfortable now. He doesn't know why he didn't fight Ronan, and he doesn't know why he doesn't know. He looks at Maeve helplessly. Should he have fought harder? Is this some failing on his part?

"Sinbad didn't approach me," Nessa says slowly. "Ronan is a laid-back guy, but that would have triggered him."

"Why didn't you, I wonder?" Keely stares at him with that same peering, searching look. Her magic is healing magic but he didn't take her for a scientist by nature. Now he wonders. That look is all Firouz.

"I don't know." He knows nothing about the _teas_ except what they've told him. He can explain why he attacked the big Celt, but not why he refrained from attacking Ronan. Not why he didn't try to take Nessa. He remembers seeing her, even smelling her. Appreciating her beauty. But he didn't feel the intense pull toward her, the blinding, furious possessiveness he felt toward Maeve. Ronan touched her, kissed her. Put his hands on her. That didn't bother Sinbad. But if the man had so much as stepped toward Maeve, there would have been blood.

"You should have seen Ronan as a threat, the same as you did that Celt," Keely says.

"But the _sìthiche—_Ronan?—he didn't touch Maeve." Sinbad's memories of the _teas_ are fuzzy, as if he spent the entire time half-drunk, but this much he knows. Not only did the giant Celt try to fuck her, he hurt her. Sinbad remembers that all too well. The big Celt's hands on her. How hard he held her against the counter, eliciting a cry of pain.

She rests her hand on his shoulder now, squeezing gently. Her dark amber eyes are soft, and her calm gaze grounds him. Maeve, at least, isn't questioning him about his motives. His momentary insecurity bleeds away. If she doesn't think he did anything wrong, he doesn't care what the rest of them think.

"It's...odd." Antoine looks puzzled, though not as intent as Keely. "You didn't go for Ness, and you didn't try to fight Ronan. You should have done both."

"I didn't want her." This much he knows. He inclines his head to Nessa a little sheepishly. "No offense."

"None taken." She chuckles, the sound low and sweet, very much like Maeve's. "We're already a near-incestuous bunch. That's one more entanglement I don't need."

Wren snorts.

Sinbad has to agree. With two sets of siblings—or near-siblings—paired off with each other, things get confusing.

"You shouldn't have been able to make that distinction, though." Antoine wipes his baby's face with his long sleeve. She's a mess of peach juice and drool; Sinbad had no idea just how dirty babies were. "As far as I know the only exception the _teas_ makes is for close blood relations. I've never tried to touch Ness. Dermott's never touched Maeve." He grimaces. "But that's it."

Sinbad shrugs. He's as helpless to explain now as Maeve was the night it happened. She didn't want the big Celt who attacked her, and Sinbad didn't want Nessa when she appeared. Maybe he would have felt differently if Maeve wasn't there—if he and Ronan were in competition for the same woman. But all that mattered to him then, as now, was the tall redhead he's come to love. "Does it matter?" Because it doesn't to him. He doesn't regret stopping the big Celt, but he's glad he didn't pick a fight with Nessa's _sìthiche_ lover. There was no need.

"Not really. Not at the moment. But we're scholars, and I'm curious." Keely stares at him for another moment with those unnerving green eyes before taking her baby from Antoine's arms and rising. "You're both odd ones. I should really stop expecting normal reactions from either of you." She glances at his rainbow bracelet, which never stops glowing dully at Breakwater, before desisting.

Is he odd? Sinbad doesn't think so. He looks at Maeve, sitting next to him. Is she?

No. No, odd is the wrong word. She's special. Extremely special. Unique. She does things her own way. That doesn't make her odd. She kisses his cheek and rises, following Keely out of the room.

"How are you, by the way?" Antoine asks. Now that his hands are free he dishes up more food. It's gone cold, but he doesn't seem to care. "Aside from the attack. What did you think?" He grins.

"No offense, but I don't ever want to do that again."

Antoine and Niall both laugh loudly.

"You say that now. Wait a few days. Once you can piss without pain again you'll feel differently."

They can say what they want, but Sinbad knows he won't change his mind. Maeve doesn't like the _teas_. She did it for him once, but she won't want to do it again and he won't ask it of her. The loss of control is too great for either of them to handle well.

The baby in Wren's lap begins to fuss. She slips off her stool, lifting him to her arms.

"Want me to take him?" Niall offers his free arm.

"No. He needs to nurse and nap." She offers her hand to the two-year-old on Niall's lap. "Come with mama, Duncan. I'll tell you a story."

"Sing," the boy says as his father lifts him to the floor.

"If you like," she agrees, pausing to make sure he's following before she leaves the room.

That's sweet. Sinbad glances at Maeve's empty seat. She'll be singing to her own baby soon, if all goes well. She has a lovely voice, high and clear. He doesn't remember any lullabies from his own childhood, having lost his mother so young, but Maeve will know some from her people. Doubar might remember, too. He likes the thought of his big brother singing to a little niece or nephew. This angry mess between Doubar and Maeve will clear up once they can tell him the truth, he's sure of it. Then Doubar will be thrilled at the coming addition to their family. They can put to rest this strange argument about whether Maeve is or isn't family, once and for all. She absolutely is, and even if she never agrees to marry him, bearing him a child will be proof.

Antoine rises and peers out a window. "The kids have been gone a while."

"I'll check on them." Niall grabs the last of the peaches from the bowl and jerks his chin at Sinbad in invitation.

It's either cold rain or dishes. Sinbad watches as Ant starts scooping wooden plates and spoons into a pile. He chooses rain.

Outside, his breath steams in the sopping wet. Niall doesn't bother with a cloak and Sinbad doesn't have one. At least he has boots. Everyone at Breakwater seems to prefer being barefoot despite the weather. They're clearly not poor and could afford shoes if they wanted; Sinbad doesn't know if this is a _sìthiche_ thing the humans have adopted or just a barbarian thing. Maeve often goes barefoot on beaches and in forests, now that he thinks about it, though never in crowded cities or on the Nomad. Sinbad himself far prefers his nice, sturdy boots...until he plants his foot firmly in a deep, chilly puddle hidden by last summer's brown grass. He squelches along, reconsidering his opinion on the subject.

"All joking aside, is Maeve okay?" Niall asks, shoving his wet hair out of his eyes. "I know she didn't want to do this."

"She's okay." Of this, Sinbad is sure. She'd tell him—loudly—if she wasn't. "Keely's going to have to clean her up some before we can go home, though."

"Yeah, that happens." Niall chuckles. "Bran finally started asking questions about why we look so beat-up after the _teas_ this year. The others are still oblivious."

"What do you do when she's pregnant?" Sinbad wants to know. Wren is pregnant a lot, and as far as he knows they can't just opt out.

"The _teas_ doesn't affect pregnant women. Here—the barn is over this way." Niall nods toward the right. The meadow is large and meandering, bracketed by a thick forest of branching oak and spiky evergreens, ash and birch trees just beginning to bud with new growth. They head down a very gentle slope and across the wide expanse of muddy grass.

"But it still affects you, doesn't it?"

"If we hang around, yeah. Usually we cross to the main island, stay in one of the nearby towns or just in the woods if it's warm enough. The boys like to camp."

The roof of the barn comes into view, set back slightly in the trees, where the building is somewhat protected from the elements. Part of the meadow has been fenced off to make a small pen, which holds a number of shaggy, wet horses. Near the bottom of the gentle slope a cluster of sheep graze. Sinbad can hear the children's high, piping voices, but he can't see them.

"It must be difficult, having to gather all your boys and leave home four times a year."

Niall shrugs. "It's part of having _sìthichean_ in the family, just something you get used to. They can't help it." He snickers. "Not that either of them would. They love it, and so does Keel."

"Yeah. She looked worse than Maeve this morning." Antoine is so good-natured that the blatant handprints all over his _chéile_ took Sinbad aback.

"Don't worry about Keely. She likes being manhandled." Niall waves away his concern.

"I wasn't worried. _Teas_ or no _teas_, I think she'd tear apart anyone who tried something she didn't like." As would Maeve.

The smaller man laughs. "That she would." They duck inside the barn.

The barn is small and snug, probably just big enough for the animals it houses. The dirt floor has been swept clean, mangers and water trough filled—the kids have done well, even if their chores took twice as long as they should have. Two chickens dart through the doorway.

Mia appears at Sinbad's side, as impervious to the cold as everyone else seems to be. "Come see my pony," she says, reaching for his hand. "I just got him."

Sinbad isn't sure what to do when her cold little hand folds into his. "Uh...okay." He follows her to the pen where the horses are clustered. She's a tiny thing, but whether that's her mother's blood or just her age he has no idea. Her sodden hair still curls stubbornly despite the weight of the rain streaming down. She wears a dress of sturdy wool, dyed violet, with long sleeves but a knee-length skirt, presumably so her movements are freer. Her sharp little knees are decorated with scabs and she climbs the wattle fence with an easy, practiced motion.

"There." She points. In their heavy winter coats, weighed down with rain and mud, all the horses look the same. "His name is Angus. I have to share him with Rory."

Sinbad thinks she's pointing at the smallest animal, round and shapeless under his shaggy coat. He might be gray or dun, Sinbad can't be sure, and he's the shortest, fattest little horse he's ever seen. The animal ignores them.

"You can let them out for the day," Niall says from behind them.

Mia swings one leg over the top of the wattle fence and pulls a stick holding the gate closed. It swings outward. The horses don't budge.

"Will Maeve's baby be my cousin?" The little _sìthiche_ girl drops her stick and stares at Sinbad. For the first time, he notices that she has her mother's green eyes. They look even more unnerving in her little brown face. He stares at her, unable to answer.

"No, ladybird," Niall says for him, swinging the gate wider. He shrugs when Sinbad looks at him. "But he or she will be your friend. Like the boys."

"I want a cousin. Bree's little girl in the village has cousins."

"Nessa's baby will be your cousin, if she ever has one." Niall chucks her lightly under the chin, then returns to the barn.

Sinbad wants to beg him to return, feeling a little rise of alarm as he's left alone with Mia. He doesn't know how to talk to a little girl, especially Keely's little girl. She may look like her father but he suspects there's more of her mother in her than he first realized.

"Who told you Maeve was having a baby?"

She wrinkles up her face as if he just insulted her. "No one."

"So how do you know?" The question is out before he can think better of it. He's not entirely sure he wants to know.

"I just do. I know lots of things." She wiggles her muddy toes against the thin sticks of wattle. "I can read. Can you?" Her tone is challenging.

"I can." Most people can't. He wonders if she knows this. "But I couldn't when I was your age."

She beams. Her baby teeth are tiny little pearls, and she has a single deep dimple in her left cheek. He's...enchanted. He's not sure if Antoine is a particularly good-looking man, but he made an adorable kid.

"Mama's having another baby, too."

Yeah, Sinbad was kind of afraid of that. For whatever reason, he absolutely believes the child. She shakes the water from her curls and the little chips of amethyst in her pierced ears sparkle.

"Are you and Maeve going to live with us now?"

"No." He shakes his own head, his hair fully saturated, unable to get any wetter. He's soaked to the skin. She's wearing wool so fares slightly better. She's so little, a tiny, skinny thing, barefoot in the cold rain, and he wonders that she's not a shivering mess. If he had a cloak he'd wrap her in it, but he has no cover he can offer. "We live on a ship. I think Maeve has told you that." He's seen the evidence of the stories she's told the children, but he doesn't know how much a four-year-old memory retains.

Antoine's daughter nods. "But Maeve is my auntie. She's not supposed to be gone forever."

"We'll visit," he says cautiously. This isn't his child and he doesn't know whether promising anything is wise. "We'll visit a lot."

"Can Maeve still be on a boat when she's fat like my pony?" Mia swings her skinny little legs. Wattle fencing isn't meant to be climbed and it sways precariously as she shifts her weight from side to side.

"I don't know," Sinbad says honestly. That's one of the things he's most worried about. He was raised by men and knows virtually nothing about pregnant women, but he's pretty sure at some point Maeve won't be able to hide her growing belly anymore.

"Is her baby a little boy or a little girl?"

"I don't know." He's somewhat surprised Mia doesn't know, honestly.

"I hope it's a girl. We have too many boys already." She wrinkles her little nose in a look of pure disgust. Despite being her father in miniature, that expression is all Keely. "Mama wants a little boy, but da wants a girl." She looks at the horses, who refuse to move from their warm cluster in the drenching rain. "What do you want?"

"I don't know."

She turns back to him, frowning. "You don't know very much."

Sinbad feels completely out of his element, and somewhat insulted that a four-year-old finds him such an inadequate conversationalist. But he's never had much interaction with small children, especially girls. What is he supposed to talk about?

Mia kicks her legs, the fence continuing to sway dangerously. Sinbad can hear Niall in the barn with the boys but he can't see him. He wants to tell Mia to stop, but she's not his, and he's half afraid she won't listen if he tries. He suspects that, like Maeve, she only obeys when she wants to. She has her mother's intractable spirit, he can absolutely tell, even with Antoine's cooler blood to dilute it.

Mia swings her tiny weight atop the wattle fence again and it dips dangerously as it tilts this time. Unable to stand it any longer, Sinbad reaches out and plucks her from the fence. She would have hurt herself and broken the fence in another moment, he's sure of it.

Her wings flicker at her back as he lifts her. The burst of cool air and spray of water surprises him—at least that's one thing he won't have to worry about when his own baby comes. He's fully human and Maeve nearly so. Their child will be wingless—forever grounded, but safer in this world by far than Antoine's girls.

"You don't want to bring the whole fence down, do you?" He finds to his surprise that holding a small child is fully instinctual. She's a tiny thing, slender as the sticks in the woven fence, and holding her against his hip is more natural than it is mimicry of what the other adults do.

She laughs, oblivious to the mess she nearly caused, and wiggles until he puts her down. He's surprised that he doesn't particularly want to. The muddy, saturated grass is freezing cold, and her tiny little feet are bare. "I like you," she decides.

"How about you like me indoors?" He can't stand seeing her small self standing in the rain anymore, no matter how little she seems to care. He can still hear Niall's voice inside the barn but decides this little one has had enough wet weather for the day.

She reaches for his hand, just as she did to lead him outside. Hers is cold and muddy, dwarfed by his, but he carefully folds his fingers around it and they head back across the meadow. She walks swiftly but he has to slow his steps so her short little legs can keep up.

Antoine meets them at the kitchen door, wrapping Mia in a large linen towel. He rubs at her wet curls with practiced ease, tucking the cloth around her little body. Every motion of his larger self tells Sinbad how much he adores this kid. She may have come along at a bad time, but she's certainly not unwanted. He doubts she could comprehend how lucky she is to have a father who loves her like this. Maeve sure as hell didn't. Most daughters don't.

"Go change into something dry," Antoine says, releasing her.

"Want tea."

"You can have some hot tea and milk after you change." He pushes his dripping daughter gently toward the stairs, ignoring the muddy little footprints she tracks across the tiled floor. With all the kids constantly in and out of the house Sinbad suspects keeping the floor clean is impossible. He takes the dry cloth Ant tosses at him and rubs his saturated hair gratefully.

"You have a cute kid," he says, careful not to lean his dripping frame against the counter. Ant has been grinding bonechar, one of the ingredients of most ink recipes: his hands and the mortar and pestle are soot-black.

Antoine's broad, lopsided grin splits his face wide. "Don't I know it." He returns to his work. "Will you put some water on? The boys will want tea, too, when they come in."

Sinbad fills a kettle with water, the first time he's used the kitchen tap, and sets it on the metal stove. He remains next to the contraption, grateful for the heat of the fire. The house around him is warm and he relaxes a little as he wrings out his sleeves and rubs the towel against his hair. He needs to find Maeve and get back home, but he lingers a little, not quite ready to leave this place. He prefers his little ship to anyplace else in the world, but he hates the necessity of lying to his crew and he dreads the scene that's coming when they return.

"That kid's got me wrapped around her finger, and she knows it." Antoine returns to his tedious task. "You watch out, if Maeve throws a girl. You think you're big and tough, but she'll own you."

Sinbad...isn't sure how he feels about that. He doesn't want to be a father like the ones he remembers from his own childhood, so disconnected from their children, but he isn't really comfortable around the little things, especially girls. Doubar assumes he's getting a nephew regardless—Sinbad isn't stupid enough to make that assumption, but hell if he knows what he'll do with a daughter.

"Mia says Maeve and Keely are both pregnant."

Antoine snorts. "Could be. Then again, she's four. I never know with that kid."

"I know magic tends to run in families. She's got her mother's gift, doesn't she?"

"Most likely." Ant scrapes with the pestle; the sound sends unpleasant shivers down Sinbad's spine. He's glad this isn't part of his job. "Magic doesn't usually manifest until five years or so. But Mia's such a mutt, we don't really know what's going to happen. I'm pure _sìthiche_ as far as I know. Keely's mostly human, but that green in her—when we were searching for a cure for Dermott, multiple sorcerers and scholars told us it's the mark of dryad blood."

Sinbad frowns. "Those are real, too?"

"Must have been, at one point. I've never seen one, and neither has anyone we've spoken to. But she doesn't dye that green into her hair, it's natural." He shrugs. "She says her mother had no magic at all, so it must come from her father's line, and she never knew him."

"Mia's got her eyes."

Antoine nods. "And she shouldn't, which tells me _something's_ been passed down. With so much competing blood in her, we'll just have to wait and see what happens as she grows. I'm not too concerned. She's healthy and happy, and that's really all that matters." He adds another bit of bonechar to the mortar and continues grinding. "She says and does things now and then—things that tell me she has magic of some sort. It hasn't been too bad yet. Not like Dermott's stories about Maeve." He smashes the blackened bone with a practiced hand. "He says her magic was apparent before she could talk. Just a warning." He grins.

Oh, dear gods. Maeve's magic is unpredictable enough. The thought of dealing with a gifted child as well as its not-quite-trained mother unnerves him. Actually, it downright terrifies him. He says a silent prayer that they're able to find Dim-Dim sooner rather than later. He'll absolutely need his old master's help to stay sane if this baby inherits its mother's magic.

As often seems to happen, too, Antoine's rambling has brought up more questions Sinbad doesn't know the answers to. If Maeve's magic was apparent from the start, why is she still a student at nineteen years old? Most apprentices leave their masters at fourteen or fifteen; she's years beyond that. He knows she had a rocky start, but Dermott took her away from their murderous father when she was younger than Mia is now. What happened in the intervening years? Why is her training so far behind? He wants answers, but he wants them from Maeve, not her adopted brother. He asked Dermott before, and she didn't like it. He can wait.

"Listen," Antoine says. He pauses for a moment and raises his eyes to the window. Sinbad can see Niall and the boys heading toward the house, wet and bedraggled and thoroughly indifferent to the cold. "I know you need to get back to your ship. But if you need anything—_anything—_we're here. Me and Niall." He looks at Sinbad with his bright black eyes. "You can't talk to your men, and even if you could, they won't get it. Not until they have a broody woman to care for. So. Even if all you need is a drink and some silence."

Sinbad is beyond grateful. He has a feeling he'll definitely be taking the man up on his offer. "She may not be with child. But thank you." His instincts tell him she is, but he can't count on that. Not until he knows for sure. He rubs his hair with the damp linen cloth one last time. Once he's back on his ship in the baking Arabian heat he'll dry off in no time.

Antoine shrugs. "The girls have a spell that will tell them. In a moon they'll cast it, probably with some of the other women who came for the _teas_. Then you'll have your answer."

Maeve told him as much. A moon is a long wait, but they have a lot to do in the meantime. Cargo to drop off in Cairo. Talia to find. Doubar to placate. He takes a deep breath, mentally bracing himself for the inevitable clash with his brother.

"Sinbad? You ready?" Maeve enters the kitchen, dressed once more in her own clothing. Keely is behind her. She measures tea leaves into the steaming kettle and removes it from the fire.

"Do you need to be cleaned up?" she asks, wiping her hands on her hips. She tosses her green forelock out of her eyes with an impatient jerk of her head.

"I'm good." He checked in the mirror this morning. As long as he doesn't remove his shirt for a few days, no one will be the wiser.

Maeve's arms wind around her friend; Keely hugs her back fiercely. Mia enters the kitchen in what look suspiciously like Rory's clothes.

"Keep in touch. Let me know if you need anything." Keely gives Maeve a final squeeze and steps back. Mia winds her arm around her mother's leg, pressing close, and waves solemnly.

This isn't home, and Sinbad doubts it could ever be—not for him. But these are good people, and they've helped him immensely. He'll miss the men of Breakwater, as well as the protection of this place. It was nice to know Maeve was safe, at least for a few days. That Rumina couldn't see her, Scratch couldn't harm her. Going back to the Nomad, all of that will change.

She slips her opal bracelet on her wrist and holds her hand out to him.

Strange little Mia is right—Maeve is with child. She's carrying his seed, the only hope he has of breaking Scratch's hold on his soul. The three days they've spent here during the _teas_ can't be forgotten or undone—she bears the result inside her. As he takes her hand and the world dissolves around them, he knows nothing will ever be the same again.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: A somewhat shorter chapter than usual, but I thought since many people are stuck at home shorter, more frequent posts might be welcome._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

The heat of the southern sun hits Sinbad hard. His body relaxes as he lets the familiar warmth beat through him. He wasn't cold at Breakwater, exactly—not after returning to the snug house from his squelching trek to the barn—but sopping wet clothes are uncomfortable and he's glad to be back where he'll dry quickly.

"Sinbad!" Doubar pounds his back with brotherly affection. At least some things never change. "You're all wet."

"It's raining up north." He shakes his clammy sleeves, stretching himself open to the sun.

Doubar eyes Maeve. "She's not."

"I had the sense to stay indoors." A smirk tugs the corners of her sweet mouth.

Fuck, being back here is going to be hard. This is his home and he loves it, but he has to physically restrain himself from touching Maeve. He can't do that here, no matter how much he wants to. And he does want to. Despite his sore body, despite the oversexed past few days, he still craves her nearness, her warmth. Right now he badly wants to kiss that sweet smirk, but he can't. They can't. To ensure her continuing safety from Scratch and Rumina, he has to keep his distance.

Doubar doesn't keep his distance, turning the pounding on his back into a bone-breaking hug. Sinbad's body explodes in pain and he does his best not to groan. The aftereffects of the _teas_ will be with him for a while; he's going to have to suck it up and get on with life.

Doubar smells strongly of sweat, brine, and ale. These are the odors of their life, but after several days awash in the lush, spicy-sugar scent of the _teas_ it will take some adjustment. Nonetheless, Sinbad slaps his brother on the back several times in welcome, hearing the larger man's hearty chuckle. It's a sound he's known since earliest childhood, a sound he's always found vastly reassuring. When his big brother's nearby and laughing, he knows all is well in their world.

"Welcome back." Firouz grasps his hand warmly. Rongar touches Maeve's shoulder and receives a friendly smile in return. "Did you learn anything on your trip?"

"An abundance," Maeve says. She shoots Sinbad a glance of wicked amusement. It's there and gone in an instant, no one else the wiser. He hides a snicker, but just barely.

"Well?" Doubar looks expectant, his bushy eyebrows lifting as he waits for news.

Mentally, Sinbad braces himself. This is not going to be fun. "Nothing conclusive." It's technically true—Maeve isn't showing signs of being with child, so the results of their trip aren't exactly conclusive yet. He adds what he hopes looks like an easy smile.

Doubar gives him an incredulous look. "You were gone for more than three days, and all you can say is 'nothing conclusive'?"

"What do you want me to say?" Sinbad digs his hands into his hair. It's too long, and he's reminded of Declan, Maeve's special favorite of the Breakwater children. "The library was full of information, but nothing definitive. Everyone there agrees with Cairpra that the Tam Lin Protocol is the best option for fighting Scratch's claim on my soul, but they can't say for sure that it's the _only_ option."

Doubar swears. "I knew this was going to happen. I _knew_ it! That trip was a waste of time."

It's the furthest thing from a waste of time Sinbad has ever done. It brought him closer to Maeve than he ever dreamed he could be. He may not know all her secrets, but she's his in a way no other woman will ever be. She's also more than likely carrying his child—a burden he cannot physically share with her, but he's going to do his best to make it as easy for her as he can.

"Corroboration of information isn't the same as a waste of time," Firouz protests. "It's part of the scientific method, actually."

"So you got your corr—corrob—found out Cairpra was right." Doubar waves Firouz's argument aside. "Fine." He turns on Maeve. "Well, girl? If your own people say this is what you need to do, what's the holdup?"

She scowls with fiery intent and opens her mouth.

Whatever retort she's about to make won't go over well; Sinbad knows that before she speaks. "Whoa, big brother." He physically steps between them. Maeve is tired and hurting, Doubar impatient and ready to fight, and the combination doesn't bode well. "This isn't her battle. It's mine. It's for me to solve this riddle, not her."

"So you're going to carry your own child, then?" Doubar's sarcasm bites deep. "I'd like to see that magic trick."

"Actually, it's been proven that male seahorses carry their young—" Firouz begins.

"Sinbad is not a seahorse, and I am not taking anymore of this twaddle from a spiteful wench!" Doubar tries to brush past Sinbad, but he stands firm and will not allow it.

"Doubar. Stop." He doesn't like to force compliance from his brother, but he will if he has to. "That's enough. She's not the only woman in the world."

"Al-Alawy said it has to be a woman you know!" Doubar is big and belligerent and doesn't back down, though he stops advancing on Maeve. "What girl do you know better than her?"

None, and Doubar knows it. But Maeve is in a delicate condition, his gut says so, and the tiny spark of life she harbors must be protected at all costs. Three souls hang in the balance—Sinbad's, Maeve's and their child's. This secret must be kept, and Maeve's health and wellbeing preserved. The next few moons will be difficult for her, for them both, in ways he can't even guess yet. So much is riding on the child she carries, her ability to keep it healthy and safe until Samhain. She's the strongest woman he knows, but she can't fight this war alone, nor should she have to.

"I know her best," he acknowledges, choosing his words carefully. Doubar knows him better than anyone else in the world—better than Maeve, maybe even better than Dim-Dim. He may not be the sharpest, but with that long-standing bond he's difficult to lie to. Sinbad also has to remember that Rumina and Scratch could be listening at any moment. He has to be so, so cautious with his words. He glances at Maeve, and quickly away again. She's not happy, and it's his fault the wary, defensive edge has returned to her stance, cold caution in her gaze. "I know her best, but it's not like I'm some monk." He forces his voice to neutrality and attempts a confident grin, as if his soul didn't literally rest on the outcome of this choice. "I will not force a woman, especially a member of my crew. Maeve has said no, and I accept her choice."

"Well, I don't!" The angry pink in Doubar's cheeks deepens to crimson. He surges past Sinbad, pushing his brother aside. "You realize you're dooming my brother, girl?"

She scowls, as implacable as the giant, refusing to be cowed by his size and anger. "I would give my life for him if necessary. Without a second thought. But I have people counting on me—promises I've made, promises that must be kept. Having a child endangers that, and I just can't do it. Not when Sinbad has other women he can ask."

She's talking about Dermott and her quest to free him. If Maeve really had turned Sinbad down, he'd understand. After everything Dermott has done for her, everything they've been through together, he understands the bond they share. He truly wouldn't begrudge her a refusal. It's one reason her willingness to do this staggers him. She's risking not only her own life, but her brother's chance at freedom.

"Sinbad's not asking for the rest of your life!" Doubar bellows.

"Yes, he is!" she roars back, just as angry.

"No, he's not! No one would want a shrew like you to wife!"

Oh, that one stung. Sinbad can see it in her face, though she refuses to give Doubar the satisfaction of witnessing it. She doesn't look wounded, but the icy, firm defiance in her glare redoubles. "Celts don't marry," she snaps, fiery, stubborn, implacable as granite. "But a child is a lifelong charge for a woman. It isn't for you—I get that. You men go around fucking as you please without regard for consequences. I don't have that luxury."

"And I understand that." Sinbad squeezes her shoulder. He shouldn't, but he can't help himself. She's angry and hurting, and all he wants in the world right now is to stop it. None of this is her fault. Doubar has no one else to lash out at so he's picking on the most convenient target. "You're still an apprentice, and you have your own quest besides. I don't blame you for not wanting to do this."

To his surprise—or perhaps not—Rongar reaches out, too. He takes Maeve's hand and inclines his head over it, dark eyes sympathetic. He understands, too. She smiles, the gesture tight but very real, and squeezes his hand in thanks.

"Well, I do blame you!" Doubar growls. "What in the world could mean more to you than Sinbad's soul?"

"My brother's." Her eyes narrow dangerously.

Doubar looks a little taken aback, as well he might—she's never mentioned a brother to anyone but Sinbad. But he recovers quickly, forging ahead, opening his mouth to snap back at her.

Sinbad's had all he can take of this bickering. "That's enough." He drops his voice purposefully into his captain's register, deep and firm. "Maeve's said no, and I don't want to hear any more about it." He'll hear more whether he wants to or not; Doubar isn't even close to finished griping. But Sinbad's tired and in an incredible amount of pain, and he knows Maeve is, too. They don't need this right now. "We're on our way to find Talia. She's the better choice, anyway." He does his best to smile. He'll have to apologize to Maeve for that comment later—Talia's not the better choice by any measure, and they both know it.

"Whatever happened to the female sailors you used to speak of?" Firouz says hesitantly. "Elise, was it?"

"And Fallon. Part of the Adventurer crew." Doubar seems pleased with this idea. He gives Maeve a sidelong, disgusted look. "We should try to find them, little brother. That Cassandra was a pretty one, too. I'm sure she remembers you." His smirk is proof that he's trying to irritate the sorceress. Sinbad honestly has no idea who Cassandra is or where they might have met her. He looks cautiously at Maeve.

Her lovely face is a mask; if Doubar's barb hit home, she doesn't show it. Without a word, she brushes past Firouz and disappears below deck.

"Let's not go crazy. I neither need nor want a harem. And did you have to do that?"

"Do what?" Doubar grunts.

Sinbad folds his arms over his chest. He might have to lie to his brother to keep Maeve safe, but he will not tolerate the man continuing to deliberately provoke her. She handled herself well today, but her temper can't be relied upon. Nor does she deserve Doubar's ire.

"You know exactly what. Look, I know I have a serious problem to deal with, but Maeve has every right to make her own decision about helping me. We're not talking about a small favor. Do you understand that?" He really hopes he does. He's sick of this argument.

Doubar scowls. He hates when they disagree, and he hates feeling chided. Sinbad doesn't really care right now. He needs his brother to get it. "Nine moons isn't so much to ask. She's been with us longer than that."

"I will not force a woman." Sinbad's voice is tight. "I thought you felt the same." He's honestly a little alarmed, and hates that he even has to question this about his brother.

"We're not talking about rape!" Doubar bellows

"Then what the hell _are_ we talking about?" Sinbad yells back. He takes a step closer to his brother. Beside them, Rongar and Firouz are silent. "She said no, and you're telling me to disregard that! You tell me what that is?"

Doubar has no answer, as Sinbad knew he wouldn't.

"Dim-Dim raised me better than that." His voice drops. "He raised _you_ better than that."

Doubar's countenance darkens. "It's not the same thing at all! We're not talking about some portside fling! We're talking about your life!"

"And hers."

"Nine moons of it! Nine gods-be-damned moons!"

Sinbad isn't sure he's really hearing what he thinks he hears. "Did you listen to her at all? A child is much, much more than that." Doubar can be even more pigheaded than Maeve when his ire's up, but this is bad, even for him. "Being with child—bearing one—it could easily kill her. _Kill_ her. Are you listening? Do you understand? And even if it doesn't, a child is a lifelong burden."

Doubar groans. "We've already talked about this!" He ducks his head, meeting Sinbad's eyes. His own burn with the intensity of his belief. "How many times do I have to say it? That—" He points to the closed door behind which Maeve disappeared, "—is not a stable girl. She's not a damsel in distress, and you are not a prince sent to save her. You wouldn't even know her if Dim-Dim hadn't dumped her on us! She will not stay, and there's no reason for you to want her to."

Anger bubbles in Sinbad's gut, fierce and hot. Anger at his brother's assessment of Maeve, yes, but also his assumption that Sinbad needs the situation explained to him. Doubar is wrong on both counts, so very, very wrong.

"Maeve is a good crewmember," Firouz protests, though not with much strength. This isn't his fight to step in the middle of, and though he's not always the quickest to pick up on social cues, this much he understands.

"Good enough," Doubar grudgingly admits. "And that barbarian temper of hers helps in a fight." He pulls a face. "But a good sailor doesn't make a good wife."

"Celts don't marry anyway." Firouz shrugs off the argument. "She wasn't lying about that."

"Then it shouldn't matter to her who swells her belly," Doubar snaps.

Sinbad bristles again, and he's beyond glad Maeve went below deck, where she doesn't have to hear this. Celts may not marry, but they clearly do pair-bond; he's seen it for himself. They're not indiscriminate, and he honestly takes offense at his brother's suggestion that Maeve is. She's never, ever given the slightest indication of it, and for Doubar to assume so just because she's Celt irritates the hell out of him.

"Why are you acting like this?" he demands. "First you're not happy because she won't fuck me, now you're accusing her of being immoral because she's Celt. Which is it?" He's letting his own anger get the better of him and he knows he needs to stop, but this is seriously pissing him off. Doubar's arguments make no logical sense and he shouldn't expect them to—the man is angry and lashing out. But he's angry too now, and he won't allow the insults against Maeve to continue. She's done nothing to deserve them.

"Both!" Doubar glowers.

"But it's not true." Firouz's protest is slightly louder this time. "She doesn't, ah, partake in the delights of shore leave. Not that I've seen." He turns red.

"How would you know?" Doubar challenges. "You're too busy fiddling with your contraptions to notice!"

Rongar folds his arms over his bare chest and shakes his head firmly, agreeing with the inventor.

"I don't care if she does! She has every right to if she wants to!" Sinbad seethes. Maeve's sex life is nobody else's business, and he doesn't want the rest of his crew discussing it. Besides, he's positive Doubar wouldn't care if she chose to fuck every tavern-keeper they met, but for their current crisis. No one's ever judged her for it before—not until now. "Listen to me, all of you. Maeve is a member of this crew, and she's made her choice. It's my soul on the line, and if I'm not upset, none of you get to be, either." He eyes his brother carefully, daring him to argue. "Don't make me say it again."

Doubar says nothing, but his eyes burn with barely-controlled anger. This isn't the end, Sinbad knows. He's afraid it's only the beginning.

* * *

Maeve comes to him later than usual.

Sinbad was afraid she might not come at all. They're both tired and incredibly sore, and he's not sure he could fuck her even if he wanted to, but he craves the sweet, steady warmth of her body against his nonetheless. Despite his exhaustion he can't sleep without it. He's almost ready to open his bottle of whiskey and attempt a wink of sleep that way, when he hears the soft creak of his door.

A moment later she's beside him. He draws her warm, soft body close, relief flooding him as he folds her into his arms, burying his cheek against her silk-soft curls. Breathing in the fresh, green smell of her, he feels his body finally relax. "I was afraid you might not come."

"I wasn't going to." She tucks her head under his chin, impatiently shoving his shirt from his shoulders, seeking bare skin to press against. He can hear the unhappiness in her whisper, no matter how quiet it is. She lets him remove her thin linen shift and nestles close.

Sinbad holds her as tightly as his sore arms allow. He's not going to fuck her tonight and she probably wouldn't let him if he tried—she was bleeding when the _teas_ ended, and that was barely a day ago. They're not going to try to make a baby, so there's no excuse for her to be here. That she came means she feels the same way he does, whether she's willing to admit it or not. They both need this comfort, the soothing balm of being close. He tucks her tight in his arms, bundling his brown woolen blanket around them both. The night isn't cold, but she likes the constriction and he aches to give her whatever she needs.

She exhales a deep breath as she melts into him, the tension of the day releasing, her aching muscles slowly relaxing. They have no excuse for this, and as far as Sinbad is concerned they don't need one. He loves her. She loves him. Denying that, remaining separate, hurts too much. He wraps himself around her and holds on tight. This stolen time in the darkest hours of the night is all they get. He refuses to give that up.

"Doubar isn't going to stop." She sounds so tired. He hates it.

But he can't lie to her. "No." This pain cuts bone-deep. "I can forbid him from fighting with you."

She doesn't answer. They both know that this order is useless. Sinbad can stop outright fighting but he can't stop the angry hostility. He can't order his brother into a better mood, so until Scratch's hold on Sinbad is removed, Doubar's mood will remain sour and he'll continue to take it out on Maeve.

Sinbad inhales a slow breath. Maeve is risking absolutely everything for him. Her future. Her life. She's already lost her brother, though he has faith Dermott will return eventually. It's unconscionably unfair to make her put up with Doubar's hostility on top of it all. He winds a hand through the soft, loose curls he loves so much, and offers something he never before thought he'd consider. "Do you want me to put him ashore? I will, if you want. Temporarily."

"Are you crazy?" She pulls back. Fuck, that hurts. The _teas_ is over but it still hurts like fucking hell when she removes her body from his. Is that normal? He'll have to ask Antoine.

He can't see her eyes in the utter darkness of his cabin, but he can feel the alarm in her body as she tenses. One cool hand cups his cheek, fingers sliding lightly over his eyes, his mouth, like a blind person trying to read his intentions.

"I'm not crazy." He catches her hand lightly and kisses her fingertips, then finds her mouth with his. "I'm concerned." He kisses her frown, the velvet softness of her mouth, one hand slipping between them to press lightly against her abdomen. "I love you, and this child means everything. I won't have it endangered."

She relaxes slightly, and doesn't protest when he draws her back against his chest. That's much, much better. He kisses her eyelids, her temple. Where that sudden pain came from he doesn't know, but it disappeared when she returned to his arms.

"Doubar isn't dangerous. Just irritating. He makes me angry, but that won't hurt the baby." Her gentle hand strokes his hair, pulling the too-long strands out of his face, combing them back. Soft lips touch his. Gods, he loves that mouth.

"How do you know?"

"That he's not dangerous? Because I know Doubar. He's a giant puppy dog; he'd never hurt me."

"Not that. How do you know that stress won't hurt the baby?" Doubar is even more reluctant to hit a woman than he is. But there's a reason they call being pregnant a "delicate condition," isn't there?

"Because stress is unavoidable in most lives, and babies are born regardless. You have no idea the strain Keely was under when she learned she was pregnant the first time. She almost decided to miscarry on purpose, she was so upset about Dermott and me leaving her behind."

"Women can do that?"

"Of course women can do that." Maeve's whisper is irritated, and slightly louder than wise. She immediately presses closer, lowering her voice to almost nothing. "It happens all the time. You really are clueless, aren't you?"

About all this, yes, very much so, and he's not afraid to admit it. He knows nothing about pregnancy and babies, and less than he thought he did about women. "Why didn't she?"

"_Sìthichean_ aren't as fertile as humans, I told you that. It was very possible she might not ever quicken again if she stayed with Antoine."

And Antoine and Keely are very attached to each other—that much Sinbad understands. Keely was forced to choose between her adopted siblings and her unborn child, the only child she might ever conceive. It can't have been easy. He shudders at the thought of having to make such a choice himself. He's willing to put Doubar ashore if he has to, if Maeve insists, but only because he knows this is temporary. Once this mess is straightened out and he can be honest with his brother again, everything will go back to the way it used to be. They can all be happy once more.

He wraps the blanket tighter around them both and feels Maeve respond, the tension bleeding out of her as he holds her firmly. She really does like that, and he's a little smug that he can relax her so easily. She's usually so tightly wound, but when he holds her like this, she absolutely melts. He kisses the top of her head as she nestles against him, happy in the constricting nest of his arms. "I love you. You know that, right?"

He swears he can feel her smile. "Yeah. But I like hearing you say it."

Sinbad likes hearing her say it, too. He wishes they could do so out loud. She may not believe stress is bad for the baby, but it's not particularly good for anyone, and they're under a lot of it right now. "I'm thinking." He strokes the silky skin of her back.

"About?"

"Does Rumina speak your language?"

"Mm. I doubt it. She spoke Latin when we met. I doubt she'd deign to learn so heathen a tongue as mine."

That's kind of what he thought, too. "What about Scratch?"

She shrugs; he can't see her, but he can feel the movement against his chest. "No clue, but my people are none of his. I see no reason why he'd need to, and by all accounts he's lazy unless he wants something."

Perfect. "Teach me, then."

"Why?" she asks curiously. "I'm not saying no, just wondering. I speak enough languages for both of us."

That's beyond true. "Because then, firebrand, I can tell you I love you without fear of who might be listening."

She's silent. He cups her cheek, feels the heat that tells him she's flushed, touched by the gesture. "_Mo grá thú_," she says finally. Her voice wavers slightly.

"_Mo grá thú_," he does his best to repeat. The vowels feel strange in his mouth, but every new language feels so at the beginning.

"_Mo chailín_."

"What's that?"

"Me." He hears her smile, though he can't see it. "My girl."

"_Mo chailín_." He squeezes her tightly. Yes, that certainly is her.

* * *

_A/N: WMM, thank you so much for the review! I won't put spoilers where anyone can read them, so I hope the questions were rhetorical... :)_


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: I don't speak any form of Gaelic; I've made two dedicated attempts, but it's a tough language family and I don't pick up languages easily. All the Gaelic in my stories is straight from the internet, so you can plug it into a translator if you want to. I try to use the Irish primarily but occasionally I will use the Scottish if I don't like the way the Irish looks. I like to be as accurate as possible so if you know better than me and see an error, I will happily correct it!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Doubar does not approve of the language lessons.

"_Tá sé greannmhar inniu_," Maeve says, and Sinbad has to hide a laugh.

"_Tá éad leis_." His pronunciation remains terrible, but he's picking up vocabulary quick enough. He already knew most of the curse words, thanks to Maeve's filthy mouth.

"Of all the things in the world you could choose to study, why a barbarian tongue?" Doubar complains to Firouz. "It isn't even useful!"

"Because Maeve can teach it." Firouz shrugs. "Where's the harm?"

"It's a waste of valuable time."

"What waste?" Firouz looks at the captain, tall at the tiller. "They're not shirking. I don't think they even know how to."

Doubar snorts. "That's true enough. Even as a boy it was rare to find Sinbad off-task." He adjusts the tension on a line, then pauses, hands on the railing.

"Doubar? Ah…" Firouz clears his throat. "I know it's none of my business, but why are you so mad at Maeve?"

The big man tenses. His eyes narrow as he casts a glance at Sinbad at the tiller, Maeve seated on the steps leading aft, a large book open in her lap. "Why aren't _you_ mad at her? That's the real question."

Firouz's eyes draw up in his characteristic squint. "Because Sinbad said not to be?" He steps to the railing and leans against it. "He's not worried, timewise, and he said he prefers Talia, anyway." The inventor shrugs. "I see no reason to doubt him."

"I'm not doubting Sinbad," Doubar grunts. "If he prefers Talia, fine, he can prefer Talia. But that girl never should have denied him. She had no right to."

"Didn't she?" Firouz scratches his nose as he thinks. "She's still an apprentice. Caring for a child would certainly get in the way of her training." His eyebrows lift as he puzzles through his thoughts. "And she did say she'd do it if she had to—if Sinbad had no one else he could ask. But he does."

"I don't care." Doubar spits over the railing. He's angry now. Rongar approaches slowly, placing a cautionary hand on Firouz's shoulder and shaking his head slightly in warning. "We've saved her life enough times. Took her in when Dim-Dim disappeared. She owes Sinbad. She's being unreasonable—selfish and ungrateful. That's all there is to it."

"Ah...I'm not quite following." Firouz's squint deepens, the fine lines around his eyes wrinkling. "I fear your logic is faulty somewhere."

Rongar taps the side of Firouz's curly head several times. He points at Doubar, then up at Sinbad at the tiller.

"No, I understand that much. He's his brother, and he wants him to be safe. No one could fault him for that. I'm just not sure whether he wants Maeve to be Sinbad's champion against Scratch, or not? Because he seems to want her to, you see, and yet he's angry that Sinbad's spending time with her." Firouz blinks into the glare of the sun.

Doubar scowls. "She's sailed with us for over a year. More like a year and a half now. She's his best chance. We know Talia from way back, but never spent much time together. She's a pirate. We never were. We often struggled on opposing sides." He rests against the railing, which creaks under his weight. "Al-Alawy said the bond makes the magic. Sinbad isn't bonded with Talia. He doesn't bond with girls at all, not since Leah. But this…" He waves a hand expressively at Maeve, who asks a question in her native tongue. Sinbad replies, stumbling over the unfamiliar words, receiving a bubble of laughter in return.

"Ah...yes. I see." Firouz ducks his head against the hot glare of the sun. They're sailing up the Nile, close to their next stop in Cairo. Narrow strips of fertile farmland line the riverbanks, and the wind is favorable, pulling them swiftly toward the mouth of the river. "Still. Where's the harm? He seems happy. Don't you want your brother to be happy?"

"He was happy before this mess." Doubar growls. "He's _always_ been happy. Except just after Leah." He shakes his head with a tight, jerky motion.

"Did you ever consider that perhaps—just maybe, now—you're simply afraid you might...well, lose him to a woman?" Firouz flicks his eyes quickly toward Maeve before looking back at Doubar. He's nervous; this isn't a line of questioning that will go over well, and he knows it.

The color in Doubar's face deepens, reddening. "Stick to science. Keep to what you know. I'll never lose Sinbad to a girl. The boy he was before Leah, aye. Not the man he is now." He wipes his sweaty forehead. "He was a dreamer, before. Now he's a man's man. He needs a girl's help to defeat Scratch, and he'll get a son out of all this mess besides, but he's not the settling-down type and he never will be."

"But I don't see anyone asking him to. Maeve sails with us, and nobody's even asked Talia what she thinks yet."

Doubar waves the argument aside. "They will. They all do. That's what women expect, what they want. With Leah it would have been fine, but not these two."

Rongar nods toward Maeve and holds his hands out, a questioning gesture.

Doubar snorts with derision. "There's every difference! Leah—that child was the caliph's niece. Of noble birth. Well-mannered and obliging. Dim-Dim and the caliph himself arranged and approved the match, as did our father."

"And you don't believe your father would approve of Maeve or Talia." Firouz nods slowly. He's not quick to pick up social cues but this is beginning to make some sense to him.

"A homeless barbarian or a pirate?" Doubar laughs low, but there's no humor in it. "He would be horrified. If Sinbad were serious about either of them, that is, which he's not."

Rongar glances aft, where the language lesson continues. He's clearly not so sure.

"Dim-Dim approves of Maeve. She's his apprentice."

"He took her in. Probably took pity on the girl. That doesn't mean he approves of her as a match for Sinbad. Besides, those days are over." Doubar's belligerent, bellicose. He doesn't want to hear anyone else's opinion. "Before Sinbad chose to become a sailor he could have grown to settle down. Become a wealthy merchant like our father. He has the gift of the gab, that boy, and a head for business. He would have done well. But he changed when he lost Leah, became someone new, someone different. I can't regret the change—I think he's happier like this. Dim-Dim did always say that everything happens for a reason. But he won't give his heart again, and he won't settle down. Not for any woman, and especially not for an ungrateful, snotty little barbarian wench." Deep red, his sweaty face shines.

"But—" Firouz tries to protest.

"No. My brother needs a woman's help to save his soul from Scratch. That's all." Doubar's voice is firm with conviction. "Maeve had no right to deny him, and that's why I'm angry. You should be, too."

"But Sinbad knows what he's doing. He always does." Firouz's argument lacks the confidence of Doubar's. "If he's not upset, what cause have we to be?"

"I just don't like it." Doubar's voice deepens. "She's toying with him."

"No." Firouz shrugs off the accusation. "For what purpose?"

"I don't know, I just know I don't like it. If she won't save his soul, she can just keep to herself." He rubs his sweaty forehead once more. "She'll have to, once we find Talia." A satisfied smirk crosses his mouth. "She won't have a choice."

Rongar, when Firouz looks, seems as uneasy as the inventor feels.

* * *

Ordinarily Sinbad looks forward to each new destination, but today he's unsettled. They dock in Cairo on an early morning tide, dawn just breaking over the city. Cairo is bigger than Basra, bigger than Baghdad, and he's tense as they prepare to go ashore. He's leaving Doubar, Rongar, and two crewmembers to guard their cargo as he, Maeve, and Firouz seek its buyer, who is expecting them. He's run into trouble in Cairo in the past, and he'd just as soon deliver their cargo, resupply, and get back on the water as quickly as possible.

"Are you going to be okay?" He watches Maeve carefully. She was dizzy earlier, and almost passed out when she left his bed. He considered leaving her aboard the Nomad, but gangs of robbers haunt the docks, ready to strip ships of their cargo. Since neither option is safe he'd rather have her with him, not with Doubar. At least when she's close he can look out for her. Usually he trusts Doubar to do the same, but not right now.

"I'm fine. Quit worrying. I just didn't drink enough water yesterday." She brushes off his concern as always, stiff and brusque as she steps firmly out of his reach. Her eyes hold a very clear warning.

"You need your whole water ration daily," Firouz says as they begin the walk into the city proper. "I've precisely calculated the hydration requirements of the human body by height and weight." He pauses at her glare. "Ah, approximate weight, that is. In any case, you need it, and you don't tend to get enough, since you share with Dermott."

Maeve shrugs this off, as Sinbad expects. Ordering her not to share her water with the hawk is pointless, so he doesn't bother. She won't obey. It's just as well that Dermott's still missing. She's been tired the last few days, and now having dizzy spells. If she's ill, she needs all of her allotted food and water, not to be sharing. Dermott is perfectly capable of feeding himself.

He's going to give the hawk-man a very firm talking-to whenever he does return, however. Maeve may hide it well, but she's heartbroken. She wants her brother back, and especially right now, with all the stress she's under, it's unforgivable that Dermott is causing more.

He looks at her in the thin, early morning light, the desert city as quiet and cool as it ever gets. She doesn't look as if she's ailing, for which he's grateful. That's the last thing they need right now. She's pale, but she's always pale; that doesn't mean anything. She tosses her shoulders back, tall and proud and perfect. Just as always. She's fine, he tells himself. He just needs to make sure she eats her rations and drinks her water instead of skipping meals as she's prone to doing, too wrapped up in her studies to tear herself away. Well, not anymore. That ends now.

Located at the base of the Nile delta, where the river widens and spills muddily into the Mediterranean, Cairo is large and ancient, gorgeous and dirty, full of art and culture and also very, very dangerous. As they walk Sinbad's still not sure about his decision to bring Maeve with him, but if danger finds them he'd rather she's with him, not Doubar, especially not now.

Doubar hasn't rekindled his argument with her since Sinbad ordered him to stop, but the first mate isn't happy with her and refuses to pretend to be. The simmering silence is better than outright fighting, but not by much. Under normal circumstances, two feuding crewmates would fight it out with fists on the deck, man to man. One would walk away the victor, and the matter would be settled. But Maeve isn't a normal crewmember—she's never been a normal crewmember. Even before she became his, Sinbad would have hesitated to allow such a fight. Now, when she's possibly with child? Over his dead body. Besides, if she somehow managed to beat Doubar, that would only worsen the situation. Wounding Doubar's pride right now won't do anyone any good.

They walk the narrow streets, choked with filth and refuse, skinny children and chickens scattering before them. Maeve wrinkles her nose. The city stinks, and will stink worse as the sun grows hotter. Sinbad is a city boy by birth, used to the narrow, filthy streets, the heat and the smell, but Maeve is not.

"You're not much for cities, are you?" he asks as they turn a corner, heading toward the marketplace closest the docks.

"No." She shakes her head, red curls muted in the overhanging shadows of the close-set buildings. "I like being able to breathe."

"I like cities," Firouz volunteers, stepping around a pile of bones and feathers that used to be a chicken. "They're centers of innovation."

"Are there cities in Eire?"

"Not really. The Vikings built one. Baile Áth Cliath."

"Dublin," Firouz corrects.

Maeve glares at him but says nothing.

"Why did it take Vikings to build a city?" Sinbad asks, before she can say something to upset Firouz.

Her hot glare turns on him instead. "Why do you assume a city automatically means progress? My people don't like being packed in so tightly. We measure wealth in livestock, not gold."

"Gold's more portable," Firouz says.

"Fine. Next time we're snowed in, I'll keep the cattle, you keep the gold. We'll see who lives out the winter."

Firouz shuts up.

The narrow street opens onto a small marketplace, merchants just beginning to roll out their mats and set up their tables, hanging awnings to protect them from the sun that will soon beat down. Sinbad makes several quick inquiries, and is directed to the door of a shop, which he knocks on. A little boy opens the door, smiling.

"Arash Nilo?"

A man's arm appears, roughly cuffing the child across the cheek before pushing him out of the way. "That's me."

Maeve scowls. She's not in a good mood to begin with, and Sinbad watches, wary of her reaction. He wants to turn over their cargo and collect their fee, not cause a scene.

"Name's Sinbad," he says, extending his hand to the bearded man. "I have a shipment for you from Basra."

The man's cautious expression eases. "Ah, good. Ahead of schedule, even."

Maeve offers her hand to the little boy, now peering around the edge of the door frame.

He watches her with big, curious black eyes. "You're funny looking."

She takes no offense. "I came from very far away."

"On a boat?"

"On many boats."

He slips out the doorway, sliding between his father's leg and the jamb. The man shakes Sinbad's hand and ignores his son.

"Your hair looks like fire."

"Yours looks like ink. I like it. It's very shiny."

The boy smiles.

"Are you hurt?" She bends and lifts the child's head with a gentle touch, examining the spot where his father's knuckles hit his face. There's a red mark on his tea-colored skin, nothing more. "Are you hungry?"

His eyes light with interest. Sinbad watches as she produces an apple from the pouch at her waist, fruit which he's sure came from Breakwater. The child grabs it, biting down gleefully.

The boy's father ignores him. "We'll get my cart and borrow the neighbor's, and have you on your way again soon."

That's exactly what Sinbad wants, too. Dallying in Cairo would be fine under normal circumstances, but not when he has a sorceress to worry about and a pirate to find.

"Your woman is not dressed appropriately," Arash says as they haul a large, two-wheeled cart from the alley beside his house.

"She never is," he says, brushing off the man's displeased frown. More important to him is the merchant's assumption that Maeve is his. Usually he corrects this quickly, assuring the people they meet that Maeve is his crewmember, nothing more. But now?

He lets the assumption stand. She didn't hear it, still busy with the little boy, who talks to her through a mouth full of apple, so she doesn't protest, either.

Sinbad takes the first cart, Arash the second. They'll be slower this time, and Sinbad is grateful to have docked so early, before crowds swarm the busy city streets. He tosses the little boy in his cart, receiving a high-pitched squeal of delight in response. "Maeve?"

"Don't you dare." She walks next to the cart, the child happily hugging the railing at her side, clutching the swiftly-disappearing apple in his other hand.

There isn't much room to pass the carts along the narrow streets and the wheels bump and lurch over piles of refuse. Their pace slows as they near the docks and the streets grow busier.

"Doubar!" Sinbad calls when they reach the Nomad once more.

"Aye, brother! All's well." Doubar and the others have begun hauling crates up to the deck. "Had a few roughs come by, eyeing things. Once they saw me they left quickly." He laughs merrily.

Arash laughs, too. "I would as well, sailor!"

They stop the carts and begin the task of transferring the cargo. This haul is all cloth—Arash must be either a dry-goods merchant or a tailor. Sinbad and his crew take up their usual positions, creating a relay line up which to pass each crate or sack, moving the product swiftly out of the hold, up to the deck, and down to the waiting carts. He stands in the cart, catching each item Doubar heaves him over the Nomad's side, allowing Arash to stack the carts as he sees fit. The little boy helps happily, blind to Maeve and Firouz spotting him, Maeve keeping some of the weight of each crate until the child lifts it cheerfully into Firouz's grasp. Sinbad doesn't bother to hide his grin. The kid's slowing them down more than helping, but it's pretty cute.

Once they finish unloading, Arash shakes his hand once more and pays him. Sometimes collecting all he was promised can be a struggle, but this time the merchant pays without protest. To thank him, Sinbad sends Doubar and Rongar to help haul the laden carts back. He suspects that will be faster than guarding one cart at the docks while Arash takes two trips.

Pocketing their pay, Sinbad beckons Maeve over. "We need to resupply, and I want you to come with me."

She waves at the little boy, who has pulled himself up on the back of Doubar's cart after his father pushed him off the other. "You're not going to be a father like that." Her voice is flat and irritated—it's a warning, not an observation.

"No. Why would you think that?" He glances with apprehension at the busy docks. This conversation touches a little too close to topics it shouldn't. He's not very far into his language lessons, but he's quick at picking up at least the basics. He switches over. "You know me better than that."

"_Aithin_, not _tuig_." She corrects his verb, switching languages as well. "I'm just saying."

Yeah, he gets it. Her only memories of her own father are brutal, and she wants none of that for her child. Coming from the background she does, she's probably a little oversensitive. Arash wasn't bad compared to some of the men he remembers from childhood. All the same, in his mind striking a child makes a man nothing but a bully.

"I may be rough around the edges, but I'm not a bully. I don't hit children."

She doesn't respond with words. She doesn't have to. Her eyes hold her warning, clear as anything. She loves him, but she won't bend on this. If he lays a hand on their kid she'll take it and leave. Or kill him. Very possibly both.

"_Mo chailín_." He wants badly to touch her, to pull her close and kiss her forehead, her lovely mouth, though he knows he can't. She's in a terrible mood, partly because of the merchant's treatment of his son, but also partly because, Sinbad suspects, she doesn't feel well. She's good at hiding these things from most people, but he's learning. Tiny beads of sweat sparkle at her hairline and they shouldn't—not so early in the morning. The cargo was relatively light and well-packed, easy to move. Doubar sweats easily but that wasn't enough work to make Maeve so warm. At least, it shouldn't have been.

Right now that pretty mouth is nothing but a tight, tense line. The tension in her body melts away when he holds her tightly and he wishes to all the gods that he could do that now, give her that peace, but he can't. Not physically, anyway. He's not a man of words and this language is brand new to him, but he wants badly to soothe her. He can't use his body, so words will have to suffice. "_Mo chailín_. You know me. You wouldn't have agreed to do this if you thought I'd hurt a child."

Her hot eyes drop to the dirty ground. She toes a piece of decaying trash. "No. I know you won't." Her chin lifts and she meets his eyes. The fire in hers has died down, cooler now, though tension remains in her shoulders, her spine. "But seeing that...it makes me angry, Sinbad."

"I know." He takes a cautious step toward her, though she remains more than an arm's length away. They can't be seen acting as anything other than friends. He knows, but he craves the warmth of her nearness just the same. "I won't be like that. You know me." At least, he hopes she does.

"Yeah." The tension in her shoulders eases minutely. "I know you." And she cares for him, no matter how difficult it is for her to say so. She's willing to give him a child despite her vow never to bear one, despite how awful the timing is for her own quest. She'd never have agreed if she didn't trust him. She's too canny for that, her sense of good too strong. She may rail at Sinbad for trying to take care of her, but she does want him to care for their child. Protect him. Keep him from harm, not cause it.

He can do that. He's not sure he can be a father like the men at Breakwater, but he can and will protect this child. With his life, if need be. That's how family works.

To that end, he reaches his hand toward Maeve. He doesn't touch—he knows better. But he guides her without contact, hovering for just a moment until she moves, stepping to his side, beginning to walk slowly toward the marketplace. "Come, then. I want your help resupplying."

"Why?" She walks with him readily enough, but he can sense the edge of suspicion in her question. "That's Firouz's job."

Yes, it usually is. Firouz has a whole system of calculations for how much food and water each of them needs per day. It's maddeningly complex, but it saves them space in the hold for paying cargo and keeps them from wasting food, as well. On a small ship with no designated cook resupply should be the first mate's job but Doubar has no patience for Firouz's exacting procedures, so Sinbad usually helps.

"Because you're…uh, expecting. Or soon will be."

She snorts. "_Torrach_. Or _ag iompar clainne_."

_Carrying family_. He's never heard that expression before, but it's apt. "I don't know what a pregnant woman requires, so I need your help to resupply. You don't have to supplement with food from Breakwater. I can feed you perfectly well. I just need to know how." That irks him a little, to be honest. He doesn't mind that she eats when she visits—in fact, he's glad that she gets the variety Keely and Antoine can provide. But he doesn't like her bringing food back with her as if he can't take care of her. He can.

She waves off his argument. "I don't bring food back with me, I just forgot I had it when we left last time. And I already told you, I don't need anything more than usual."

Yeah, he was kind of afraid she'd say that. "Would a midwife say the same, if I asked? Would Keely?"

Maeve glances at him as they walk, and frowns. She seemed recovered from her bad mood earlier, but he's provoking her again. "I agreed to do this for you. I didn't agree to you hovering over every bite I take, every minute I sleep. Why bother asking me if you don't trust my answer?"

"I want to trust your answers." Frustration begins to well in him, bubbling in his gut. She's impossible even under the best of circumstances, which this manifestly is not. She's probably with child and going to be increasingly uncomfortable and difficult to deal with as time progresses. On top of that, when they leave Cairo they'll be sailing into the Mediterranean to search for Talia. Talia and Maeve do not get along, and this is a simmering cauldron about to explode. He's perfectly aware. He aches for control, though so much of this situation is beyond his reach. He has no choice about the Tam Lin Protocol—not if he wants to save his soul. He has no choice about lying to his crew, hiding his feelings for Maeve. If she's sick, he can't control that, either. Sinbad is a strong leader and needs that authority, needs to know he's the master of his own destiny. With so much he can't control, he hangs desperately on the things he can. Right now, that's Maeve's health and safety. He can't relieve the stresses in her life, but he can provide the nutrition she needs—at least he could if she communicated with him. "You insist all the time on being the strong girl, the tough girl. And normally that's fine. I've never once stopped you. But that has to change now."

"It does not!" Her eyes blaze with anger, bright and hot, like a flame. She stops walking, planting her feet and rounding on him, refusing to move toward the marketplace. "All those farms we passed as we sailed up the river—do you think the women living there get to stop working, or eat better, just because they're pregnant? Most of them are literally _always_ either pregnant or nursing, from the time they marry until they die, usually in childbirth." She folds her arms over her chest. "That's the reality of a woman's life, you idiot! Being pregnant is normal. It's not some...some illness to be dosed and treated. It's just life!"

She whirls, about to storm away. He grabs her arm, preventing her. The glare she pins on him as she spins back around is lethal. He can feel her fury radiating from her like heat from the sun. Sinbad fully expects to be slapped in another moment, but he's pissed off now, too, and he's not ready to let her have the last word.

"Yeah, that's how farmers live, but you chose differently. You didn't want that life." He lets go of her arm, fairly sure he's prevented her from storming off just yet. Cairo isn't safe, and he doesn't want her walking the streets alone no matter how angry he is. He fights to be understood in a language he barely knows, dropping into Arabic now and then when he just can't find a word. "You could have stayed at home, found a man, and raised a pack of wild redheads, but you didn't. Instead you're here. You can call me an idiot all you want, but I do know one thing about pregnant women. They miscarry. A lot."

"_Iomrall_," she snaps. "Not _scaoil_. And that's none of your concern. You did your part. Let me do mine, and leave me be!"

"No." He'll do almost anything for her, anything she asks, but not that. She ought to know better than to ask him to. "We're not doing this for fun, in case you forgot. My soul depends on that child staying alive for at least seven moons. I need you to listen, and really hear me this time." She knows how vital this is, he knows she does. She wouldn't have agreed to carry a child at all—ever—but for the sake of his soul.

"You don't even know yet that there is a baby. You could be causing a scene over nothing."

And a scene they're certainly causing. People have paused in their morning routines to watch the public spat, amused, though they can't understand the argument. Sinbad doesn't care. He's been a public spectacle before and he will again.

"If you're not carrying yet, you will be soon, so it makes no difference to me either way." He shrugs off her protest. "Without that baby, Scratch wins. Rumina wins. And babies die _all the time_. So yes, I'm scared. And yes, I'm going to treat you like glass. I'm going to do everything I can to keep that baby alive. You have to let me."

Those were exactly the wrong words; Sinbad knew it the minute they left his mouth, but it was too late to stop. Maeve's eyes blaze, and she pulls herself to her full height, lifting her chin, tall, proud, and unyielding. She's gorgeous; glorious. He doesn't think he's ever been angrier with her. "I don't _have_ to do anything," she snaps. "I don't belong to you! I'm not your wife, not your property. You can't own a Celt!"

For an instant, just an instant, Sinbad agrees with his angry brother. Who would want to?

The morning sun lifts itself high enough to peer over the tops of the buildings. A shaft of light angles down, falling over Maeve's seething form. Her hair glows like fire. "You can't coddle me. I already warned you." Her eyes look nearly black under the sunlit blaze of that hair. "Nothing can change. Were you not listening to me, or are you just as forgetful as your brother? If we're discovered, we all die."

She's right. She's right, but so is he, and she's unwilling to see it. He's beyond angry, beyond enraged, knowing she's deliberately taunting him with jabs about his intellect, his brother. He throws out the only argument his livid mind can come up with: "I may not be your husband, but I'm still your captain. You owe me your compliance."

And that was too far. He knew it before he said it.

"Captain this." She lifts her middle fingers in a gesture that needs no translation, then turns, stalking away. The crowd parts, giving her a wide berth.

Sinbad swears. In Gaelic.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: I'm not sure whether this is common knowledge, so just a quick historical note. We can't know the exact rates of miscarriages, stillbirths, and infant deaths before the advent of modern medicine, because the records just don't exist, but we know from what source material we do have that these things were incredibly common. Some estimates are as high as 50%. So at this point in history it would have been very much a concern. However, there's a pervasive myth that people in the past didn't love their children like we do, because the likelihood of a miscarriage or a child's death was so high. This is completely untrue. Existing diaries and other records prove it. Parents have always loved their children, and miscarriages and deaths have always been excruciating experiences. They just happened much more frequently._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve marches blindly down a maze of narrow streets, thoroughly lost and thoroughly uncaring. Fury grips her, so stark that she shakes with the force of it. Tears sting her eyes and she's not even really sure why. She blinks them back, even angrier now. She doesn't cry. She has no reason to cry. Sinbad is an idiot—a beautiful idiot, but an idiot. He doesn't understand anything. Pregnancy is a woman's business, not a man's, and he needs to butt out. Besides, he doesn't know yet whether she is pregnant. She doesn't even know. He's being an idiot, and it's very possible he's being an idiot for no reason.

She walks for a long time, not caring where her feet take her, as long as it's away from him. The way she feels right now she's liable to hurt him, and that's not the person she wants to be. She can't help losing her temper, but she can control her actions. She's never attacked anyone out of pure temper except Rumina, and as far as she's concerned Rumina's fair game. But not Sinbad. He's a controlling, overbearing asshole sometimes, and he makes too many assumptions he shouldn't. Tries to take charge over things that are none of his business, even as her captain. But despite it all, she loves him. He may deserve her anger. He doesn't deserve her fists.

Maeve turns a corner, heading down a shady alley, away from the now-burning glare of the sun overhead. She wipes her forehead on her arm, pausing for a moment to breathe. Her anger isn't gone yet, but it's cooling. Enough that she can think again. She's not calm, not happy, and probably not really rational, but she can think. She takes a deeper breath, grimacing again at the stink of the city. All cities smell, but it usually doesn't bother her so much. What makes Cairo worse than Baghdad or anyplace else, she doesn't know. She's also usually not so bothered by the heat, but she wipes her forehead again as the sun beats down. Her cheeks are hot even under her own hands. It's strange. She likes the heat—likes it better than the ubiquitous cold rain in her own homeland—and has never had a problem since she learned to respect the sun and its power. But now another wave of dizziness washes over her, and she's not sure why. Firouz might be correct that she's not drinking enough, though that's never been a problem before. She rests her sharp shoulder against the earthen wall next to her for a minute, letting the lightheaded feeling pass. When it does she steps out of the alley, into the narrow street.

"Cent, lady?" A beggar boy approaches, his dirty palm outstretched.

Maeve has a difficult time resisting begging children. She knows better than to reach for money in plain sight, but it takes only a moment of concentration and very little energy to move a piece of copper magically to her palm. She drops it into the boy's open hand with a smile.

"That's no lady," a dirty man says, pausing in the street to stare at her with dark, disapproving eyes.

Maeve learned long ago that if she took insult everywhere it was meant, she'd never have time to do anything else. "I'm not," she tells the boy, giving him another coin, "but you're a gentleman for saying so."

He grins. He probably calls every woman he sees a lady, in hopes of gaining more coin, and Maeve doesn't care. She has a weak spot for kids on their own, and knows it. The boys in these cities look nothing like her brother but they remind her very much of him, how he struggled to keep the two of them alive when they were young. It was harder before the fire. After it, he also had Keely to care for, but they were all older, better able to adapt and survive.

"You're a barbarian," the man says. Sweat and dust have mixed to form a thin film of mud on his face. He scowls. "Heathen."

"Yes," she agrees with perfect calm. "And you're a fool. Your point?" She gives the boy a third coin, which is more than she really can spare at the moment, but it makes her happy and irritates the man besides. He rubs his dark, sweaty hair. She sees his eyes shift, looking at something over her shoulder a moment before the boy cries out in warning.

"Lady! Look out!"

From the alley behind her, arms reach to grab her. She's hot and uncomfortable but not slow—she turns, twisting swiftly out of reach.

"From the back? That's not playing fair." She lowers automatically, body flowing smoothly into a fighting stance. She's been at war with the world since she was born—fighting is automatic. Comfortable. She pushes the boy out of the way with a firm sweep of her arm. "Get out of here, kid."

"But, lady," he protests.

She shakes her head and draws her sword. "Go. Now!"

Her attackers emerge from the alleyway one after the other—four big men. The dirty man who called her a heathen is nowhere to be seen.

"What's a pretty thing like you doing all alone, sweetheart?" the first man taunts. His dark eyes watch her sword with caution. The men hang back, sizing her up. She's used to that reaction. Even in her homeland most men don't know what to make of her.

"Do I look like I need a babysitter?" Her anger with Sinbad never quite cooled and now it flares back to life. Oh, she's pissed. At him. At Doubar. At these men. At this whole damn city. She waits, watching them as they watch her. A good fight is just what she needs to make her feel better. She'll send these four running with their tails between their legs, then find her way back to the docks, anger spent.

"You look like you need a firm hand." The first man seems to be the leader. He winds a length of hard leather around his knuckles. Two of the men wear cutlasses sheathed at their sides, but they don't draw them. This tells Maeve instantly what they want, and it's not the coin she carries or the gold she wears. They want her. She's potentially high-quality merchandise—exotic and beautiful. They won't use their blades unless they have to.

She evaded the southern slavers who prowl the coast of her island as a child, and she has no plan to do any differently now. They want her whole and unblemished. She doesn't mind carving them to pieces. She attacks.

Four against one isn't fair odds, but Maeve doesn't care. She's used to uphill battles. She attacks the leader first. Two of his men spring to his defense, one finally drawing his sword, left with no choice as she wields her blade.

His cutlass is cheap iron, a short sword meant for stabbing, not defense. Against her heavy steel broadsword, it stands no chance. The blades clash together, reverberations slamming up her arms. She runs her blade along the edge of his until she reaches its weak point, where the cheap iron begins to curve in the characteristic southern arch. Here she strikes, twisting her heavy, high-quality blade in an arc, her hand the locus, hitting his sword sharply with the flat of her blade, exactly as she wishes. His blade snaps cleanly in two.

The man yelps and drops the hilt, stepping back. "Heathen!"

"I may be a heathen, but I'm smart enough not to bet cheap iron against Celtic steel." She laughs at the fury on his face. The high cultures of the east don't respect her people, but Celt metalworkers are some of the best in the world and no one denies that. No one dares.

The only man left with a sword draws it. His is better quality iron, but still iron. She watches his hips, his feet, the way he moves. He's a better fighter than his friend.

"Looks like this girl could use a lesson in manners," the leader says. "Teach her."

The man moves.

He's not bad. Maeve counters swiftly, her attention now fully on the fight, her opponent, and nothing else. Her ability to block out the rest of the world, to concentrate wholly, is partially how she's become such a deadly fighter. She's agile and strong, yes, but her ability to concentrate and sheer pigheaded tenacity have seen her through many tight spots. She trusts her body, her instincts, and lets them take over, blade meeting blade, sweating hard in the midday Egyptian sun. She lands a kick in the leader's gut, prompting a volley of curses from him, then whirls to block the blade arcing toward her.

One of the other men has a bullwhip, long, supple, braided leather. It lashes swiftly at her legs as he attempts to catch hold and pull her feet out from under her. She evades the attempt, but a lash catches just below her left knee, another above her right. It stings like hell, and she swears.

"I don't want the girl to dance, I want her to be still!" the leader snaps. He has rope, but he can't get close enough to use it.

Maeve almost forgot the man whose cutlass she broke until he returns with a wooden rod retrieved from somewhere and swings it at her head.

"Look out, lady!" the beggar boy yelps.

"You stay out of it!" The man with the whip flicks it toward the boy, who ducks into an alley.

"I told you to get lost!" Maeve uses the momentary distraction to ground herself, planting her feet. She opens her palm and summons a ball of fire. Her sleeve slips down her arm, revealing the opal bracelet, its silver wraps glittering on her arm.

The men hiss and draw back.

"A witch!" The man with the cudgel swears. "You didn't say she was no witch, boss."

"It doesn't matter," the leader insists. "Tie her hands and she's as useless as any other wench." He steps forward.

"I wouldn't." Maeve tosses the fire lightly up and catches it again. She doesn't like using magic when fists will suffice, but she's overheating too quickly and she needs to stop this fight before she loses it.

"Incompetent fools!" The leader grabs the whip from his man and coils it with an easy flick of his wrist. Black eyes snap with fury as he trains them on Maeve. "This girl's given us enough trouble. If that pretty skin wasn't worth so much, I'd take it out of her hide."

From her back, one of the other men darts in. The boy yells, but it's too late. Strong arms clamp around her, hard and unyielding. She throws herself forward at the waist in an attempt to hurl him off, but he's big and he doesn't budge. She reaches back as far as she can and plants the ball of fire firmly in his face.

He howls. Curls of leather snap fast around Maeve's legs and the man at the end of the whip pulls, unbalancing her. If her feet stood closer together she would have fallen but they're planted wide in a defensive stance, giving her just enough balance to remain upright. This time. With one more jerk he'll have her down, and that won't end well.

"Lady!" The boy hugs the side of the building, his dark eyes wide.

"Get out of here," she snaps.

"Go on," the leader urges. "The pretty lady's coming with us now."

Like hell she is. She bends and grabs the leather lash of the whip in her hand. She closes her eyes for a moment, gathering power before the man can pull again. Fire erupts down the length of the whip as if running along a fuse. It doesn't burn her, but the leather disintegrates, leaving the man with a handful of burning ashes. He swears and rubs his burned palms against his clothing.

Two men stand burned and moaning. The other two have disappeared, apparently having decided their pay for a pretty Celt isn't worth the blood they'll shed capturing her. Maeve staggers. That last burst of magic wasn't a good idea. She was tired and overheated already, and now can't pull in a good breath. Another wave of vertigo hits her hard and she staggers.

The leader of the gang only had his palms singed. He's angry, and not badly hurt. He advances. The other man got a face full of fire and isn't getting up anytime soon. His face is ruined and he's probably permanently blind, but that's not much comfort to Maeve. She drops to a knee, fighting to get a full breath. Her head's spinning worse than a whirlpool and she struggles, battling to stay upright. The man grabs her wrist, lifting her arm. She can't stop him.

"A pretty trinket. This will fetch a fair price. As will you." He pulls at her opal bracelet.

No. That's something she absolutely can't allow. She's never, ever used Breakwater as a retreat before and she doesn't want to now, but she can't let anyone take that bracelet. It's her only tie to her people. She reaches up with her other hand, yanking at her magic as she does, and touches the stone.

* * *

Sinbad is frantic.

He never should have let Maeve walk away from him. Not in a big city completely unfamiliar to her, one he knows to be dangerous. He knew better. He even stopped her from storming off earlier in their argument. But he was furious by the time she stomped away—they both were, and beginning to say things they'll regret later. Things he regrets now. Demanding her obedience was never going to end well, and he knew that even before he opened his mouth and said it. But her hard-headed refusal to see his side of things pissed him the hell off, and he just couldn't stop himself. It was time to separate for a while, to let both their tempers cool.

But he shouldn't have let her leave.

Now that he's thinking more rationally, he can see other options, better options. He could have grabbed Firouz, easygoing Firouz, and had him cajole Maeve back to the ship. He could at least have had Firouz follow her, or followed her himself, to ensure that nothing bad happened to her. When she's in a temper she doesn't always think clearly. He can easily imagine her picking a fight with the wrong people, landing in a situation she can't extract herself from. It's happened before.

He digs his fingers into his hair and pulls, the small pain grounding and centering him slightly. Long shadows swallow the narrow streets and narrower alleys; night's here. Maeve is not. She can't possibly still be angry—her temper lights swiftly, but it cools almost as fast. She doesn't sulk or hold grudges. She should be back by now. Not apologetic, and maybe not willing yet to discuss things with him rationally, but she should at least be back.

Since his attempt to change their supplies went horribly, Sinbad sent Firouz and Rongar to complete their usual resupply while he and Doubar searched for Maeve. Nothing matters except finding her. He searched the neighborhoods around the docks thoroughly and left instructions with every shopkeeper and stall-minder to send a messenger to the Nomad if she's spotted. She's very tall, very beautiful, and very foreign. No one could fail to notice her. But no messages have come.

He trudges toward his ship for the umpteenth time today. Maeve means everything to him—she and the baby she's possibly carrying. They can't be sure she's with child until they return to Breakwater and the women perform their spell, and that's still a week away. But his gut tells him she's bred, and if so, she's carrying the fate of three souls: her own, Sinbad's, and their child's. He needs to find her. He needs to get through to her somehow, to make her understand that this can't continue. She can't keep taunting fate the way she does, storming off alone in a dangerous city being an excellent example. It grates at him even normally, but now, when so much depends on the life she carries? His nerves just can't take it. He feels like he's aged years today. Cairo is not a safe place, especially for a woman alone. Maeve can take care of herself most of the time, but she's been bested before. Her kidnapping by Norsemen comes to mind. She's strong, but she's not infallible. With that exotic beauty she's a tempting target despite the broadsword at her side.

Despite his insistence that he won't worry, won't dwell on empty fears, Sinbad finds himself doing just that. Taking Maeve into southern cities is always an ordeal. Most people go about their usual daily business regardless but she draws many stares from men and women alike. She's so unusual, so different from what the people here are used to. Her height, her proud bearing, that milky skin and fire-bright hair—it all marks her clearly as the Celt she is. She draws attention; she can't help but. Most gazes are harmless and admiring, but not all. Cairo is not a center of the slave trade but that doesn't mean flesh isn't peddled here. Despite the fierce reputation of Maeve's people, a beautiful woman alone is still a tempting target. When Sinbad is near he doesn't worry. But she's been gone too long and now his fear is rampant.

Lanterns hooked to the railings of the Nomad light the deck, bathing the twilit ship in a warm glow. It looks peaceful, like the best thing Sinbad could imagine coming home to. But his mind can't settle. His heart refuses. He swings himself aboard silently.

"You didn't find her." Firouz offers him a steaming bowl. Sinbad shakes his head. He's not hungry. He won't be until he finds her.

"Stupid girl," Doubar mutters, but there's no heat behind his words. Despite his ongoing anger, he's worried, too. "What did you do to make her so upset?"

Sinbad grunts. "Does it matter?" He doesn't even know how to begin to answer that question. He tried to take care of her, which he thinks she took as an insult? He doesn't know anymore. They were both furious. Words were said. Words he meant at the time but doesn't now. He just wants her back.

Many of the ships around them are likewise lit up, sailors calling lazily to each other in the soft, warm darkness. The taverns around the docks will be busy tonight. Cairo is a center of trade and the port is its hub, bustling with activity, with ships from all over the region. Normally Sinbad would be in one of those taverns, trading stories with the other men, learning the latest news. Tonight he has no wish for all of that.

"I asked around," Doubar says, gathering the bowls from their meal. "Cyprus still seems the best place to search for Talia. She got in some trouble on the mainland, I heard. Something about posing as a fortune-teller, calling at wealthy villas."

Yes, that sounds exactly like Talia. Sinbad isn't surprised at all.

"Go on." He takes the dishes from Doubar. "Go enjoy yourselves. Make sure the crowds in the taverns know we're looking for Maeve, that she's under our protection. It might make any local gangs think twice before approaching her." He urges his men toward the docks. "But other than that, take a night off. I'll wait here in case she comes back." He doesn't want to be around the crowds right now, but his men deserve the option if they want it. They're leaving tomorrow—if they can find Maeve in time, that is. Sinbad's not leaving without her. That's never been an option, and it's even less so now.

* * *

Activating the spell stored in her bracelet doesn't take much magic, for which Maeve is grateful. If it did, she's not sure she would have made it. Cool air blankets her, easing the fierce heat in her skin. Her knees shake; if she wasn't already kneeling she knows she'd collapse.

A familiar voice curses. Feet pound toward her; she can hear them, feel the slight vibration in the ground, but her vision swims.

"_Leannán_." Hard arms grip her fiercely, pulling her against a sharp breastbone. Keely. She knows the smell and feel of her best friend better than she knows anyone else, maybe even Dermott. Nessa is just behind her. Maeve inhales, her chest finally relaxing enough to take a deeper breath. Sinbad's driving her crazy and Dermott is missing, but her sisters are here. Tears sting her eyes; she blinks them back. She's home now, she tells herself, and has no reason to cry.

"Where are you hurt?" Keely pulls back just enough to survey her, a quick sweep of sharp green eyes.

"I'm not." Maeve inhales again, sucking cold air deep into her lungs. She prefers the warmth of the southern sun to the chill of her homeland, but right now she's glad of the damp, raw spring air. The sky spits random drops, threatening worse. She welcomes it.

"You're bleeding." Nessa touches a spot above her knee where the whip licked her. The skin has split, and will be ink-dark by morning.

Maeve shrugs it off. "Not really." She's still dizzy, but she doesn't want everyone kneeling in the mud with her for however long it takes to pass. She gathers herself and attempts to struggle to her feet.

"Easy, dove." Nessa catches her. "There's no rush."

Keely ducks under Maeve's arm, steadying her on sharp shoulders. "Come on. You can tell us what happened once we get inside."

"It's not important. I could have handled it." Sweat stings her eyes and Maeve digs at them with her free hand. "But they went for my opal, and I couldn't have that."

"Who are 'they'?"

"Just some locals." Her head clears once she's upright, and she takes her own weight back on her legs. Her knees shake slightly, but they hold. Whatever's been making her dizzy has passed once more.

"You're drenched." Keely steps free and appraises her. "You don't usually sweat like that. What have you been doing?"

Maeve shrugs. "I was in Cairo. It's hot." Now that her vision has cleared, she gets a good look at her friends. They're dressed in short men's breeches, and all over mud. It must be time to prepare the garden for planting. Maeve pushes her sweaty hair out of her face and sucks in another breath of that familiar cold air. The clean, fresh smell of wet earth and new grass settles her almost as much as Keel's hard hug. She didn't plan to come here, but now that she has she feels better. She can forget, for a little while, about her anger at Sinbad, about the constant fear of Scratch and Rumina. She takes a hesitant step. Her knees hold. She's fine. Why she's having dizzy spells she doesn't know, but she's fine now.

Wren appears at the front door as they approach. "Soup's almost done," she says, but blocks their entrance. "I just scrubbed this floor. The kids are bad enough. Maeve can come in if she takes her boots off. You two have to wash off first."

"Who said anything about touching your precious floor?" Nessa's wings flicker at her back and she rises, lifting herself up and over the clean entryway tiles. Maeve willingly shucks off her boots.

"You picked a terrible day to choose to scrub floors," Keely mutters, presented with a wooden bucket of cold water.

"Maeve!" Mia appears around the corner of the house, muddy to her eyebrows. She attaches herself to one long leg.

"Hands off, little bug. You can love on her when you're clean." Keely flicks water at her. "Come over here."

"I don't mind," Maeve says. Her niece is rarely ever completely clean. She stoops to hook her hands under Mia's arms, but as she lifts another wave of dizziness slams into her. She reels.

"I do." Keely grabs the child deftly with wet, muddy hands. "She doesn't fly so well yet, so I'd prefer you not drop my kid."

Mia's wings flash as they flutter. "I'm fine, mama."

"I know you are." Keely kisses her before resettling her on her feet. "Maeve is not." She frowns.

"Is she ill?"

"I don't know yet." She pushes Maeve through the door, Wren no longer protesting. "Sit." She points imperiously at the cluster of soft, upholstered furniture. "Wren will bring you water while I clean up. Then you'll tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on. I just got dizzy for a second."

Keely ignores her, as she tends to do, and lifts Mia to her hip. "Come on, little bug. Let's make just one set of footprints, shall we?" They disappear up the stairs.

Maeve wants to protest, but she's known Keely since they were small and it won't do any good. She unbuckles her sword and sets it under a low table, then settles on a plum-colored sofa. Wren approaches and touches her cheek with a gentle hand. "I'm fine." She bats her away. "I'm not one of your boys."

"No, but you're warm. Very warm."

"I just came from Egypt." Why no one seems to understand that, Maeve doesn't know.

"Mm." Wren tips her head to the side, appraising her. "When did you eat last?"

"This morning." Maeve lets her head fall back against the cushion behind her. The house is warm by northern standards but nothing like the oven of Cairo. She closes her eyes and savors the reprieve.

"And last night?"

"Yeah." She clears her throat. "I don't know what happened. I just got dizzy for a second." She doesn't mention that it keeps happening. Keely will drag it out of her, but Wren isn't so firm.

"Well, stay there for now. I'll bring you some water."

Maeve wants to protest. She's not sick; she's never sick. And she didn't come here to be waited on. She didn't really intend to come here at all. But Wren is gone and back in a moment, pressing a mug of cold water into her hand. Maeve is thirsty after her fight, and still overheated. Despite herself, she drinks gratefully.

"You're kind of a mess, you know." Wren stands behind her and strokes her hair. Her hands are gentle, easing out the snarls without pulling.

Maeve hasn't bothered to take stock of herself physically since escaping the gang of thieves in Cairo. She takes a moment to do so now. She's bathed in sweat, and she can tell from the heat in her skin that her face is still bright pink. Her hair is tangled and windblown, but she lives on a ship; she's always tangled and windblown. She has several new marks on her legs from the bite of that fucking whip, two of them red with blood. All in all, she figures she got off pretty lightly. "Keel's a worse mess," she says, shrugging.

"Keel's also upstairs washing, which is where you probably should be." Wren's hands feel incredibly soothing as she draws them through her hair. "When was the last time you bathed?"

"Define _bathe__d_." Probably the last time she was here, honestly. On ship she washes with a bucket of seawater, just like everyone else. Well, everyone else who bothers. Many men don't.

"Sailors," Wren mutters, but there's no heat behind it. "No wonder Dex wants to be one. I'm lucky if I can get him to bathe once a week, no matter what he's been into."

Maeve laughs. Fuck, she's tired. She and Sinbad aren't sleeping much, but she hadn't thought it really bothered her. Now she wonders. "You got spoiled with Bran. He's such an angel, the next one was bound to try your sanity." Maeve doesn't open her eyes. The cool air feels so good on her overheated skin, the gentle hands in her hair beyond soothing. "Where are they?"

"Helping in the garden."

"Really?" Maeve is skeptical.

"Depending on your definition of help, yes." Wren bends and touches her lips to the crown of Maeve's head. "I have to check the soup. Drink your water."

* * *

Maeve half-wakes when strong arms lift her. She's not a child and doesn't like being picked up. She protests, but Antoine's familiar chuckle calms her.

"Easy, baby girl. Keel's orders. We're just going upstairs."

She subsides, letting him bear her up to her room. She's tired, too tired to argue with Keely. Ant's shirt is warm under her cheek, the whir of his wings familiar as he propels them up to the next floor. He sets her gently on her bed, and is gone by the time she opens her eyes.

Keely's with her, though. "Are you awake?"

"Yeah." Maeve rubs her eyes and reconsiders. "Maybe. What time is it?"

"Afternoon. Does it matter?"

Maeve shakes her head. It's fine. She needs to get back to the Nomad at some point, but she suspects another argument with Sinbad awaits her and she's not looking forward to it. Instead, she submits to whatever Keely wants.

What Keely wants appears to be the same thing Wren wanted. They cross the hall, and Maeve allows Keely to wash her hair as she bathes.

"You all seriously act like I'm contaminated with something whenever I come home." Maeve leans back in the sudsy water. She loves hot water, truthfully, and she's happy to soak, but she still puts up a token complaint about being ordered around.

"A hot bath cures any number of ills, not all of them physical." Keely's short nails rake harmlessly at her scalp. It feels ridiculously good. "Tell me what happened today."

"Nothing really. I wasn't planning to come home. I argued with Sinbad and had to leave for a while to cool down. Then some neighborhood thieves picked a fight. I got overheated and dizzy, and they tried to take my bracelet. I've never used it as an escape before, but I couldn't let them get it."

"You didn't do anything wrong. I'd rather have you here than not." Keely's hands fall away. "Go ahead and rinse. How long have you been getting lightheaded?"

Maeve tries to think back as she submerges. She rubs the suds from her hair, rinsing it clean. This is something she can't do easily on the Nomad. Maybe she'll make Sinbad help her sometime when he owes her an apology. "A week, maybe, but it's getting worse." She holds the edges of the tub, using her grip to lever herself upright.

Keely twists her hair and wrings the water out of it. "You didn't tell Wren that."

"She didn't ask." Maeve tucks her hair up on top of her head. Keely knows her better. Also, Wren is a mother but Keely's a healer. Wren has instinct. Keely has training.

Keely rolls her eyes. "She shouldn't have to. I know you feel like you have to hide every weakness around those men of yours, but here it's just us. You don't have to pretend anything."

Maeve doesn't answer. Keely knows her, knows how she hates admitting weakness to anyone, not just her sailors. Dermott needed her to be strong when she was little, so she was. So she_ is_.It's too late to change that now.

A knock sounds on the door and a moment later Wren sticks her head in. "We brought up some soup."

"Be out in a minute." Keely holds up a large drying cloth.

Maeve stands slowly, cautious this time, and the dizziness doesn't engulf her. She wraps the cloth around herself.

"You were overheated when you got here," Keely says, leaning back against the sink, chewing idly on a hangnail. "And having dizzy spells. Anything else? Are you tired?"

"Yeah, but that happens when you don't sleep." Maeve pulls her clean blue cotton chemise over her head. "It's my own fault. I'll live."

They cross the corridor, back to Maeve's room. Nessa and Wren are there, and Nessa has Maeve's red blanket tucked over her shoulders. On her desk sits a tray with soup and water, as well as Keely's silver conjuring bowl. It's half-full of liquid, the potion already prepared.

Maeve narrows her eyes. "It's a week too early."

The door opens behind them. Mia enters, lugging a sleeping Lily. Her wings flutter as she struggles under the weight.

"Yeah, little sister, but you're pregnant," Keely says flatly, pushing the door closed again, then lifting Lily from Mia's arms.

"You don't know that."

"I do," Mia says, inspecting the bowl of vegetable and barley soup. Finding nothing interesting, she shimmies onto the high bed.

"I do, too." Keely nods at the desk. "Eat. You're tired, lightheaded, feverish, and cranky as hell. You're pregnant."

Maeve scowls. "I am not cranky."

"You're very cranky." Wren takes Lily, freeing Keely's hands.

"Eat," Keely repeats. She lifts the tray from the desk and pushes it into Maeve's grasp. "I'll ready the spell."

"That list could be anything." Maeve climbs onto her big bed next to Nessa. The tall _sìthiche _tosses the blanket over her shoulders.

"Almost a moon after the _teas_? You do the math. Besides, you're never ill. I see no reason why you'd start now." Keely stands over the potion in her conjuring bowl. She clears her throat and begins an incantation in the language that ruled this island before the Celts arrived.

"You're always pregnant, but you never pass out," Maeve mutters at Wren.

Wren keeps her voice down, too. "No, but I'd spew my guts the first few moons without Keely's help. All women are different. Drink your soup."

Maeve does. She's not sure why she's in a bad mood. After all, she's been assuming she's pregnant since the _teas_. Why Keely's confirmation feels so different, she doesn't know. She shifts, listening to the droning words at the desk. This is a language she does not speak—no one does. They can recite spells and incantations handed down through generations, but the last actual speaker passed from this world a thousand years ago.

Mia cuddles up to her side, soft and warm, burrowing under the downy blanket. Maeve offers her a spoonful of soup.

Mia looks horrified. "That's _vegetables_."

Maeve shrugs. She loves fresh greens, and rarely gets any while at sea. She eats her soup without complaint.

When Keely finishes chanting, her silver bowl brims with glowing green magic. She cups it carefully in her hands, bringing it to the bedside. Nessa draws Maeve's dagger and nicks her index finger, letting a drop of blood fall into the bowl. She passes the knife to Maeve. Maeve nicks her own finger.

"Me, too." Mia holds out her hand.

Maeve snorts. "If you want to play, you have to hold still."

"I will." Mia squeezes her eyes closed, but to her credit she doesn't move when Maeve draws a drop of blood. She pops her finger in her mouth, sucking the tiny nick and looking very pleased with herself. "Not Lily. She's too little."

"Very much so," Wren agrees as the knife passes to her.

Keely goes last, then passes a hand over the bowl and chants one more sentence. The green glow in the bowl pulses twice, like a beating heart, then vanishes.

"Show of hands?" Keely extends her own. The pad of the index finger she nicked glows green.

The others open their hands, too. Maeve's finger also glows. No one else's.

Wren exhales a deep, relieved breath. "I'm off the hook this time."

"Me, too." Nessa grins. "I refuse to ruin this body for anything."

Wren sticks her tongue out at her. "Whatever. I'm adorable with a baby belly."

She is, actually. Maeve flexes her hand, not quite sure how she feels.

"I knew it," Mia says proudly.

"Yeah, you did, little bug." Keely rubs her cheek. "And you're getting a new little brother or sister if all goes well."

And a cousin. If all goes well. Maeve swallows hard.

"Hey." Keely takes her tray away and then sits, pushing between her daughter and Maeve. "Talk to me."

Mia squawks a protest and crawls into her mother's lap.

Maeve isn't sure what to say. She isn't sure how she feels. She's horrified to find a hot tear spilling down her cheek without her control. "I didn't want this."

"I know." Nessa knocks her head softly into Maeve's, side by side. "For so long it was us against them." She jerks her chin at the two mothers. "Not anymore."

That only makes Maeve cry harder. She's appalled. She never cries, and she has no idea why she's doing so now.

"Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"She's fine." Wren hands the sleeping Lily to Nessa, then leaves the bed, digging in Maeve's trunk for another blanket. She tucks it over Maeve's bare knees. "It's just overwhelming the first time. Even though you suspected before. Going from maybe to definite is a big deal."

That's one way to put it. Maeve rests her cheek on Keely's sharp, warm shoulder.

"I know you didn't want this, _mo chailín._" Keely's not good at gentle, but right now her voice is soft, softer than Maeve thinks she's ever spoken to anyone except her kids. "I didn't want you to do it, if you recall."

Yes, Maeve remembers. It wasn't their worst fight, but it's up there.

"But you love him. Lying to me is pointless—I know you do." She strokes her clean hair with soft fingers. "It was going to happen sooner or later, regardless. I know you know the herbal recipe to prevent pregnancy, but it's not foolproof, and neither are any of the other methods except celibacy. Once that's off the table…" She shrugs.

Maeve snorts through her tears. She's ugly-crying now, and almost past caring. The fall of Keely's hair hides her face somewhat, silky brown strands and that lock of brilliant green.

"The Tam Lin Protocol is an insult, yes. Or, at least, the name is. The magic's ancient. Older than Scratch, even. And this way, the child you bear won't be an accident. He's a gift, little sister. A gift bestowed upon you by the ancients. A gift you're choosing to give his father. Two souls—Sinbad's, and this new one."

Maeve wipes at her eyes. "If I can keep him alive."

Wren squeezes her knee. "That's partially up to you, aye, but also partially up to the gods. All you can do is take care of yourself and hope."

Except that's not good enough. Not when so much depends on the life she carries. "You've never miscarried."

"That I know of," Wren allows.

"I have. Twice." Keely tucks her closer. "It happens, and it usually isn't anyone's fault. I know it's difficult, but try not to worry too much. Worrying is just a waste of energy, especially about something you can't control."

"Try telling that to Sinbad," she mutters, wiping the last of her tears away. She's not a crier, and she's done crying about this. Her life will never be the same again, but Sinbad's will be saved, and that's what matters. That's what she wants. The world needs him.

"What were you arguing about earlier? Was he being a controlling dick again?"

"Yeah." Maeve rubs her eyes. She's tired—really tired. "Ant never does that to you."

Keely kisses her forehead, then moves off the bed, dislodging the child in her lap. Unfazed, Mia clambers onto Maeve. "The thing is, _l__eannán_, you chose what you chose." She leaves the room, crossing the hall and filling Maeve's empty mug at the tap. "Drink," she says when she returns, pressing the mug into her hands. "You need more water now. That will help with the dizzy spells."

Maeve does. She's used to Keely's peremptory way of speaking, and for whatever reason it doesn't grate at her as Sinbad's does.

Keely climbs back on the bed, taking her sleeping baby from Nessa's arms. "Like I was saying, you chose a man with a controlling nature. He's captain of his own ship, you dope, and a hero to boot. I chose a librarian. If you wanted a manageable man, you went looking in the wrong place."

Maeve makes a face at her friend and sets the cup aside, cuddling her niece. Mia is docile as a purring kitten when she wants to be, and she presses close, warm and sweet. "I didn't want a man at all. _Any_ man, manageable or otherwise. It just sort of...happened." She can't even really say when, or how. She couldn't stand him when they first met. Somewhere along the way, that changed. She quickly learned to respect him. After a while they became friends. When friendship turned to something more, she doesn't know.

"That's often the way of it. Do you think I wanted a witch-hunter? Niall couldn't even speak anything but Latin when we met," Wren says.

"Don't look at me," Nessa says, holding up her hands. "I wanted Dermott the moment I saw him."

"You were fifteen. You wanted every young man the moment you saw them." Keely rolls her eyes.

"Even so." Nessa grins.

"And you usually got them." Maeve laughs into her niece's hair.

"Hussy." Wren laughs and shoves Ness's leg with her bare foot.

Nessa is unfazed. "I'll love that boy until the day I die, but he can be a controlling ass, too."

"Circumstance." Maeve lifts her arms as Mia shifts in her lap, curling on her side, placing her head on Nessa's knee. She nestles between her aunts, eyes heavy, letting the talk swirl around her. "He was essentially a parent before he was ten. I don't know what he would have become, had he been allowed to grow up like a normal boy."

"It's time to stop saying that." Wren frowns. "This is Eire. Clans feud, Vikings and Christians invade, southern slavers raid. No boy gets to grow up like a normal boy."

"Fair enough," Keely allows.

Maeve is silent. She tucks the blanket over the small child sprawled in her lap, strokes Mia's springy curls. Her brother didn't get to have a childhood, not really, and neither did she. Now she's carrying her own child, and a million fears plague her. First and foremost is keeping that little spark of life alive, but after that come too many others to count. This is a dangerous and deadly world, and she never wanted to subject a child to it. She still doesn't. But that preference doesn't matter anymore. Weighed against the price of Sinbad's soul, there was never any choice.

She strokes the perfect little whorl of Mia's ear, the so-soft dark fluff just at her hairline. This little girl was born into her hands when she was still the next thing to a child, Keely just slightly older. But Maeve is older now—they all are. Better able to handle what life throws at them, be it children or curses.

"You can always choose to stay, little sister." Keely touches her damp hair. "Sinbad would understand. He can visit, and you'd be safer. I know you won't stay for good, but while you're carrying your family. While Scratch and Rumina may be watching."

Yes, Sinbad would understand. He wouldn't fight her on that, though he seems ready to fight her about everything else. But she can't. She won't. The Nomad is her home now, and whether she understands it or not, she belongs with Sinbad. Not here, no matter how much she loves her people.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

It's late. Night swaths the Nomad in gentle darkness. Sinbad's crew continues to carouse and he continues to wait, sometimes pacing the deck of his ship, sometimes standing at the tiller, tense and unhappy. He snuffed some of the deck lanterns but not all, and he's not turning in. He can't sleep without Maeve, and he refuses to rest until he finds her. He'd be searching the city if he could, but someone has to wait here in case she or any news of her turns up. He chafes at the enforced stillness.

The white clay walls of the buildings gleam dark gold in the dim, fitful light of lanterns and torches, the night air warm and soft. The low voices of other sailors reach him in the stillness, the busy clamor of the day now calmed, men at play or rest. It's easy; quiet. If Maeve were here, if Sinbad knew she was safe, he'd be perfectly content.

He's beyond sorry now that he fought with her, but still he struggles. She needs her autonomy and he understands that, but his need to take care of her, to ensure her safety, rages. Especially now. She's probably carrying his child, a child that means literally everything to him. His soul, yes, but more than that. This is a life they've created together. It's not something he would have chosen on his own, but that doesn't mean he feels any less responsibility. It doesn't mean he doesn't care. He rubs his clean-shaven jaw. Unable to keep still, he drops down the aft steps and paces toward the bow as he's done innumerable times already tonight.

He needs Maeve back, and he needs her to understand. Not being able to control this situation is driving him insane. Rumina and Scratch seem not to want to show their faces, which means he has no enemy to fight, no way to release all the anxious energy humming through his body. He's a man of action. Knowing his soul is vulnerable and yet not being able to fight to protect it...it's a terrible sort of torture for a man like him. And maybe that's what they want. Maybe they're keeping away on purpose, letting him stew, letting him work himself into a lather because they know this is worse, for him, than being attacked by a thousand demons. He's doing everything he can possibly do, and it feels like less than nothing.

Which is why protecting Maeve, providing for her, is so crucial. Helping her helps him, too. It soothes the impatient, angry, anxious ache inside, the part of him that desperately needs something to do, someone to help, a way to make this awful situation at least a little more bearable. He can't fix his brother's anger because he can't talk to him. He can't fight Scratch or Rumina because they won't show themselves. But he can keep Maeve safe and healthy...or he could if she didn't fight him every step of the way.

He stands at the railing and lowers his head, staring over the side at the flat, inky water below. A lantern reflects dully, its gleam dark orange. For the first time, as he grips the railing and braces his arms, he seriously wonders if he can do this. He's physically strong. Naturally intelligent. He surrounds himself with skilled friends. But right now none of that matters. His fists and sword do him no good. He's not fighting a quick battle, but a long-reaching, marathon war against an enemy he cannot touch. And the worst part is, he can't even fight it himself. He has to let Maeve fight for him. This is wholly outside his comfort zone, at odds with the man he is. He doesn't stand back while others fight; that's not him. But right now he has no other choice.

A sound interrupts Sinbad's dark thoughts, and he turns swiftly. A cloaked figure melts out of the shadows, stepping into the light of a lantern. His body automatically tenses, but he pauses before reaching for his saber. He didn't hear or feel anyone swing aboard, and this has happened one too many times in the recent past for him to jump to conclusions. He pulls himself upright, cautious, but waits rather than attacking. "Show yourself."

Arms rise. The cloaked figure draws back its hood, revealing Antoine's broad, lopsided grin.

"Captain." He bobs his head in greeting. "The girls are doing their girly thing tonight. I knew you were in port and I haven't been in a good tavern brawl in ages. Think we could scare something up?"

Sinbad likes Maeve's adopted brother well enough, but he's in absolutely no mood for carousing right now. Or for being snuck up on. "I told Niall you couldn't keep lurking around my ship with no warning," he says, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. Ant means no harm. He doesn't know Maeve is missing. Sinbad hesitates. Should he tell him? The _sìthiche_ is an easygoing man, but Sinbad has no idea how he'll react to the news his baby sister has disappeared.

"Oh, I know I can't be seen." Ant waves away his warning. "That's what the cloak's for. It's certainly not for the weather. Fuck, it's hot."

It's not hot, actually. Not by Sinbad's standards. Once the sun set the city cooled considerably. He eyes the man before him. Even if he wanted to socialize, which he doesn't, he doesn't think taking Antoine into a crowded tavern in Cairo is a good idea. A cloak isn't much of a disguise. He'll look out of place in that dark, heavy wool, and he can't remove it without revealing what he is.

Ant pulls his arms free of the heavy cloak's cover and shoves his linen shirtsleeves to his elbows, exposing bare brown skin to the warm night. "No wonder Maeve was overheated earlier if it's this bad even at night."

Sinbad's attention snaps to him, instantly on alert. "She's there?" An odd rushing sound fills his ears and his heart pulses, hard and out of rhythm. Fuck, that hurts. He rubs his chest and winces.

Antoine's dark eyes blink. "You didn't know?" His crooked smile vanishes.

Sinbad shakes his head tightly. "No." His jaw tenses, and he has to force the words out. Admitting this doesn't feel good. He's her captain. At the very least, he should know where she is. "We've been searching all day." And half the night. He's been sick with worry.

Ant's expressive mouth thins. He extends a hand. "Come on."

Sinbad clasps it.

Whatever magic _sìthichean _use to travel, it's smoother than Maeve's bracelet, smoother than Rumina's spells. Ant claims to be no sorcerer, so the magic must be inherent, part of his being. The transition is instantaneous from a balmy Cairo night to the cooler quiet of the big house at Breakwater. They arrive in the corridor just outside Maeve's closed door. Antoine releases his grip, then puts a finger to his lips. He lifts the latch and eases the door open.

Inside, the familiar room is nearly dark. One magical light orb sits on Maeve's desk, glowing dimly golden, softer than the lanterns on the Nomad. At first Sinbad isn't sure what he's looking at and he steps closer on silent feet.

All the girls are asleep in the big bed, Antoine's daughters included, like a litter of new pups, a jumbled pile of smooth limbs and rumpled covers. He sees Nessa's curls buried in a blue blanket, bare feet that might belong to either Wren or Keely. And yes, thank the gods, Maeve is there in the tangle, Lily peaceful on her chest, Mia wedged between her and the lump he assumes is Keely, hidden under blankets.

She's here. She's fine. Sinbad exhales a deep, deep breath. It feels like the first time he's really breathed all day. The tension lifts from his shoulders and releases his chest. Part of him wants to collapse in relief. His hands ache to touch his sorceress, to feel the warmth of her skin, the steady beat of her pulse, but something in him knows not to. Not right now. She's with her sisters and he's intruding. He curls his hands into fists and resists the urge for contact.

After a moment Antoine touches his shoulder lightly. Leaving Maeve wrenches, but he makes himself. He exits the room and lets Antoine close the door once more. They descend the stairs without speaking, heading for the kitchen.

There they find Niall, again feeding his youngest son with a cup of milk and a rag.

"Sorry, man." Antoine fills three mugs with cider and brings a bottle of whiskey to the table for good measure. "I 'd've told you earlier if I'd known you were out of the loop."

Sinbad sits. He ought to be furious, but he's not. "I'll be angry tomorrow. Right now I'm just glad she's okay." He rubs his face, beyond tired. "She is okay, isn't she?" He imagined a million terrible things that could have happened to her while she was missing. For whatever reason, coming to Breakwater never occurred to him. It's by far the best result he could have hoped for, though. She didn't tell him where she was and that's not okay, but at least she's unhurt. He hopes.

Antoine shrugs. "I only saw her for a minute. She was asleep and Keel asked me to take her upstairs. I assume she's fine."

"We'd have heard by now if she wasn't," Niall says quietly. The baby in his arms is tired, and not interested in the milky rag. He turns his little head away, whining loudly, hands rising in protest.

"Sorry." Niall grimaces and abandons the attempt, lifting the child to his shoulder instead as the whining threatens to turn to full-blown shrieks. "He wants his mother, not sheep's milk. Or me." He stands, bouncing the baby gently in his arms, a soft rocking motion Sinbad has seen many, many women perform while holding babies. Is it instinctual, he wonders? Or something they learn?

"Don't apologize. It can't be helped, unless you want to disturb the girls. I'm not that brave." Antoine removes his cloak and hangs it by the door. "You hungry, captain?"

Sinbad shakes his head. He hasn't eaten since early this morning, but he's not hungry. "Just tired." Worrying about Maeve wears him out. _Maeve_ wears him out. He loves her, but fuck, she's exhausting. "Do Celt girls, uh, always do that?" He motions at the stairs. He's never seen women sleep in a pile like that, although, he has to admit, he has absolutely no idea what goes on inside a harem.

Antoine brings several pears and a wedge of cheese to the table and sits. "That's how we all slept when we were living rough. You do whatever you can to stay warm, sleeping under canvas in snow or freezing rain." His knife slices cleanly through a pear. "Why they still do it from time to time I couldn't tell you."

Niall lifts his shoulders. "I don't ask. Sometimes I find it's best not to."

Yeah, Sinbad's learning that. He rubs his eyes and drinks his cider.

The baby's cries increase in volume. How something so small can make so much noise Sinbad doesn't know. Niall paces, still with that same gentle rocking, bouncing motion. "He's stubborner than his brothers. Even Dex quickly figured out that one source of food's as good as another."

Antoine snorts. "So he likes breasts. Who can blame him? He'll either give in or he won't. Letting him cry himself out every now and then won't kill him, you know."

"Wren doesn't like it."

"Wren's not here." Ant slices some cheese off the wedge. "Hence the screaming. He's your kid. You do what you need to do. You haven't messed up any of them too badly yet." He grins.

As the screams intensify, Sinbad has to hide his wince. Is this is what all babies are like when they're awake, what his child will be like once it's born? Do they all make that awful shrieking noise? How many hours each day, for how many months? The Nomad is a little ship, and they all live in close quarters. His men won't appreciate being kept up at night by a crying baby, especially Doubar.

"Is there bread?" Niall scans the far countertop and retrieves a cut loaf. He tears a pinch from the soft middle and dips it in his cup, then slips it in his son's open mouth.

The baby's mouth closes, cries ceasing abruptly. He looks more surprised than anything else and he gums the soggy bit of bread, considering it. Sinbad's head is thankful for even a short reprieve from that high-pitched scream.

"Why didn't you know Maeve was here?" Antoine's voice isn't accusatory. "I really am sorry. I'd have told you earlier if I'd known."

Sinbad waves away the apology. His problems with Maeve aren't Ant's fault. "We fought." Admitting this is easy. These men know Maeve. Blowups are just part of life with her. He's irritated, but at this point more at himself than at her. "She stormed off. I shouldn't have let her."

Antoine laughs through his nose. "How do you think you would have stopped her? I wouldn't have tried."

"Cairo's not safe."

"And Eire is?" Antoine's lazy, lopsided grin splits his face. How he can chew and grin at the same time Sinbad doesn't know, but he's somehow managing it. "It's amusing, Sinbad, watching you struggle. Not to you, I know, and this situation with Scratch is anything but. But Dermott and I had to learn the hard way and so will you, apparently. You can't protect girls like that from everything, least of all from themselves. If there's trouble to find, they'll find it. Not on purpose. It's just how they're built. It's in their nature."

Sinbad drinks more cider and considers the whiskey bottle on the table. It's tempting. That fiery warmth is almost as sweet as Maeve's kiss. Almost. "I know that. Or I did." He rubs the back of his head, down near the base of his skull, where he's beginning to feel another headache coming on. "I've been her captain for long enough to understand that much. But she's with child now, we think. And…" He trails off, unsure how to put how he feels into words. Maeve being with child changes things, he knows it does. He feels it, but he can't explain it.

"Oh, captain. You have no idea how much that changes." Ant laughs, and his delighted chortle, bright and amused, reminds Sinbad strongly of his own brother. Doubar hasn't laughed like that in a while. He misses it. Doubar has always been his light in the darkness, the eternal optimist ready to laugh even in the most hopeless of situations. Not now.

Niall dips another pinch of bread in milk and gives it to his son. The baby's eyes are wet, his face flushed and pink from crying, but he's interested enough in this novel food that his tantrum is forgotten.

"When do they start eating real food?" Sinbad watches the baby gum the bread. The kid doesn't have any teeth yet.

"They'll let you know. Just like sitting up, walking, everything else, they do it on their own schedule. Can't make 'em until they're ready." Niall offers the milky rag again. His son turns his head away.

"What were you and Maeve fighting about?" Ant lowers his mug.

"Everything. Nothing." Sinbad clasps his mug in his hands, staring down into it. "I think she'll need more food if she's with child—better nutrition, my scientist would say. Maeve says not. She says nothing can change, that I can't provide better for her, in case Scratch and Rumina are spying on us." His hands tighten on the clay cup, knuckles whitening with tension as he recalls the argument and how angry she made him. "She's not wrong. I know that. But I don't think I am, either, and she refuses to listen."

"That's Maeve." Antoine rises, refilling their mugs at the counter. "She'll turn anything into a fight. So will Keely. So will Dermott, come to that."

"Nessa's sweeter." Niall takes a piece of cheese from Ant's plate.

"She's not. My sister can be vicious when she chooses to. She's just more judicious about it." Antoine settles back in his chair. "She saves her energy for when it really matters to her. Maeve and Keel don't think that way. Dermott, either."

Yeah, Sinbad's learned that about the hawk. "Did you know he left?"

"Aye." Antoine sobers. "Maeve told Keely the morning after the _teas_. I have to say I never expected it."

"I wasn't really surprised, at least at first. But it's been more than three weeks now." Sinbad isn't sure what to think. He doesn't know Dermott as a man, only as Maeve's guardian hawk. He finds it hard to believe, though, that the brother Maeve loves, the person Ant speaks so highly of, would abandon his sister for so long. Especially now, when she needs support.

"Aye," Ant agrees. "Maeve's never been without him for so long, except when she was at Brí Leith. Even then he visited."

"Where would he go?" Sinbad shifts in his seat. "We could sail after him, but I have no idea where to look."

"Me, neither, and he's my best friend. Or he was." Ant frowns. "He can't come here. The protective spells on this place are too dangerous. He has no family on the main island—none that he acknowledges, anyway. Their father may still be alive, but Dermott would never go to him."

"Yeah, I know that story." Sinbad drinks. Much of Maeve's past is still a mystery, but this much she's told him and Antoine's right. Dermott will never return to their father. But if he can't come to Breakwater and isn't with Maeve, where would he go? "I feel bad for upsetting him, I truly do. But I love her. I want to take care of her. But she won't let me, and her brother hates me."

Ant reaches across the table and slaps his shoulder. "Don't feel so bad. Only one of her brothers hates you." He grins. "Although, to be fair, I should warn you. Dermott beat me to a pulp when I started sleeping with Keely. I'm a strong guy, but Dermott's _huge_."

Sinbad's taken on big men before; he's not overly concerned. "How angry do you think Maeve would be if I punched him when he returns? Just once or twice?" He's aching to do so. He gets that Dermott's angry about his baby sister growing up, but he needs to get over it. Antoine has. Maeve needs him.

"She might do it herself." Ant rubs his curly head. "Or she might kill you. I never can tell with that girl."

"If I can't bring her brother back to her, what can I do?" Sinbad grimaces. "This curse isn't her fault, and it's not fair that she has to fight it alone."

"She's not alone."

"You know what I mean." Ant's a man. He has to understand. "This curse is on my soul. Not hers."

"She's your _chéile_," Niall says softly, cradling his son in his arms. "So there's no difference—her soul, your soul. They're one and the same."

It's a nice metaphor, but Sinbad isn't interested in poetry. Not regularly, and especially not now. "I want to make this as easy for her as possible, but she seems hell-bent on making it difficult."

"That's Maeve," Ant says with a shrug. "Here's my advice, for what it's worth. Women get touchy when they're broody. More than usual. Don't ask me why. I've dealt with Keel, with Wren, with other women Keel ministers to. This is a woman thing and they don't want us butting in. So don't. You picked her out of all the women you know to bear your firstborn and save your soul from Scratch. Why pick her if you don't trust her?"

Is it really that simple? Sinbad digs his fingers into his hair. He trusts Maeve, he does. With his life. Quite literally, right now, with his soul. Trust isn't the problem.

"I understand." Niall shifts the baby to his shoulder. He's falling asleep in spite of himself, fighting the heavy pull of slumber, head bobbing drunkenly on his little neck. In another moment the battle will be over. "I was raised in a monastery, but that doesn't mean I don't know what men are supposed to do. Men provide. We protect. That's the deal." He smiles gently. "You and Maeve would be having this fight with or without Scratch."

Sinbad wants to protest. Without Scratch's mark, she wouldn't be with child. Without Scratch's mark, they'd have no need to fight. He holds his tongue. Whether he wants to admit it or not, Niall is right. Maeve is his, and children would have come eventually, regardless. The timing isn't their choice, but is it ever anybody's? Children come when they come. "But she won't let me provide."

"She has a point." Antoine watches him with cautious black eyes. "If you suddenly start showering her with gifts, Scratch will know in an instant. Then her life is forfeit, as well as the child she carries."

That's not an option. Scratch can't have her. Sinbad's jaw tightens. "I'm not so foolish as to shower her with meaningless gifts, but aren't there some things she needs? I don't stint my crew, but we're sailors. We spend weeks at a time out at sea, sometimes moons. Heaps of fresh food just aren't an option. But won't she need it? If she miscarries…" He lets the sentence trail off. These men know what's at stake. "I just want Maeve and my child healthy. Why does that have to be such a struggle?"

"Because it's her body, not yours." Niall's soft voice is serious. He holds his sleeping boy to his shoulder, stroking the few soft wisps of his hair. "You've heard Ant say no one can own a Celt. This is what he meant." A work-rough hand glides over the baby's tender little head, cupping its gentle curve, holding him close. "If she was your wife, a southern wife, you could tell her what to eat, how to dress. You could dictate how much or how little work she does. No one would argue your right." He shakes his head slightly. "But she's not your wife, not your property, and she never will be. So the question becomes whether you can accept that. I had to ask myself the same question, coming from the church, when I found Wren. Ultimately, keeping her was more important to me than controlling her. I couldn't have both. Neither can you."

From a different person, the words might sound harsh or accusative. Not from Niall. His soft voice holds no reproach or censure, no hint of blame directed at Sinbad. The captain considers the man's words. He's right, and Sinbad doesn't like it. He likes to think he's done well by Maeve. She was left on his hands when Dim-Dim disappeared and he willingly kept her as part of his crew despite being a woman and untrained on the sea. He would have given her passage anywhere she liked if she wanted to leave but she refused, stating that they stood a better chance of finding Dim-Dim together. She was an apt pupil, learning the basics of sailing a ship quickly, and settled into his crew with more ease than Sinbad expected. He never coddled her, never treated her as if she were weak or delicate. All she asked was to be part of his crew, and he did his best to give her that. The only concession he's made to her sex, that he's aware of, is her private cabin, tiny closet that it is. She eats and works and fights as one of his men, and he's never treated her as less than any other sailor. Very few captains would have willingly done the same.

So why does he suddenly feel like it's not enough?

"I can't just sit back and do nothing. That's not who I am. I _can't_."

Antoine leans back. "No one's telling you to. Not even Maeve, I don't think."

Funny. That's exactly what it sounds like she wants.

"You just have to accept that, yes, she's carrying your child, but it's her body bearing that burden. Let her do it her own way."

"I'd do it myself if I could."

"But you can't, so that's irrelevant." Antoine tips onto the rear legs of his stool for a moment before dropping back down. "Give her space, man. I told you, you may have to learn the hard way. Let women tend to women's business and you'll both be a lot happier. If you don't, you risk losing her. Maeve doesn't like being held too tight."

Sinbad knows. He knows, and it's one of his biggest fears. He's controlling, and he knows that; it's in his nature. Maeve hates being controlled. He's learned through trial and error how to give orders in a way she'll obey, modulating words and tone to something she can accept. But this is new territory. Antoine isn't telling him to change his approach. He's telling him to back off. Sinbad doesn't know if he can do that, and the stakes are too high to fail. Doubar doesn't believe Maeve will stay. What if he's right? What if Sinbad forces her away by holding on too tight?

Fuck, his head hurts. Things were easier when Maeve was just his crewmember. Not better, but so much easier. He gives in and reaches for the whiskey. Losing Maeve is not an option, not now that she's his. He can control himself. Can't he?

"How did you do it? Before your first was born?" He swallows, welcoming the stinging burn, the fiery warmth in his belly, but mostly the way his body loosens, like magic, the tension in him easing. Not completely, but right now any relief at all is a gift. He wants his head to shut up, and he wants Maeve close. To touch her, kiss the sweetness of that mouth. She's better than whiskey, better than calm seas and strong wind, better than anything else he knows to quiet his tumultuous soul.

Antoine takes the bottle and drinks. "Oh," he says, passing the whiskey to Niall. "I was a wreck." He rubs his cheeks, looking unsettled. Sinbad's surprised; he assumed the man would laugh. "The timing was awful. Worse than yours, maybe even. Keel intended to go south with Maeve and Dermott to hunt Rumina. Maeve stopped her, but for moons I didn't dare argue with her over anything. I was afraid if I did she'd take off after Maeve."

"Which would have been disastrous." Sinbad takes the bottle passed back to him. He doesn't need to be told how dangerous that journey would have been.

"Beyond." Like Doubar, Ant is a happy man. He wears his upset no more easily than Sinbad's brother. "She would have had to deliver in secret, without any help but Maeve, and Maeve was just a kid. Keeping a winged child hidden while hunting Rumina would have been impossible. Slavers and bounty hunters would have been after them nonstop. Maeve and Keely would have died protecting Mia, and my daughter would have ended up in some rich sultan's menagerie."

"And with no Maeve, Dermott would remain permanently cursed," Niall adds. "Sinbad too, now."

So much depended on that one choice, the audacious decision Maeve made to leave her homeland on her own, without her sister. She left her homeland and her people to save the brother she loves, and she left alone to save her sister and her unborn niece. But she isn't alone anymore. She has Sinbad now, and the rest of the Nomad crew. He can't bear this child, but he'll do everything he can to lighten the burden. She's not alone.

"I had to learn to back off all over again. I thought I knew better than to overreach—I helped raise those girls, after all. But when Keel told me she was carrying, it was like all those previous lessons flew out the window." Finally Ant smiles, but it's not the wide, crooked grin Sinbad is used to. One side of his mouth curls up in a wan imitation of that lopsided smile. "Learn from my mistakes, captain. I came close to losing everything. I tried to tell her she wasn't going south, which only made her more determined to go. Only after Maeve left did I realize I shouldn't have been ordering Keely not to go. I should have been giving her reasons to stay."

Reasons to stay. It sounds like excellent advice...and Sinbad has no idea how to do it.

"Listen. Dermott and I raised that girl." Antoine's smile turns softly wistful. "I wish we could have done a better job—for all of them, but especially for Maeve. She's the youngest, and in a lot of ways had it the hardest. Keel had a loving mother for years, even though they wandered. Ness and I had a stable home for a time. Maeve never did." He rubs his curly head. "That's how I know she'll never come back to us—not permanently. We're settled now. Maeve has never done that, and she doesn't know how."

She doesn't have to. Sinbad wants her to keep, wants her for always. With him, she can be free but still have the stability of a family, a home. She won't ever have to choose. That wandering spirit doesn't have to be caged any more than his own.

"She's a wild thing and you'll never own her. No one can. She's rough, I know, and that temper of hers can be terrifying. But her loyalty, once given, doesn't falter." Antoine offers the whiskey once more, but Sinbad declines. "I had to learn that the hard way with Keely. Wren's not so bad." He grins at Niall.

"She was bad enough for a sheltered monk who'd never known anything but the church." Niall scratches the black hairs on his chin. "Meeting your women first would have scared me right back into the monastery."

Even Sinbad is forced to laugh. He's still unsettled, and has no idea where he stands with Maeve since she stormed away from him. But talking to the Breakwater men helps, since he can't talk to his brother. They know what they're talking about. He doesn't like their advice, but he respects it, though the man in him struggles against it. He's supposed to protect and provide—as Maeve's captain and the father of her child, that's his job. It's also the only way he can contribute right now, as he's forced to step back and allow her to bear the literal burden of this child she never wanted. But he understands what Niall tried to say: Maeve has to lead. He has to let her.

"Come have a drink when you need to," Niall urges. "Or ride—there are horses. Spar. I'm not much good, but he is." He nods at Antoine. "Whatever it takes to keep your sanity. Maeve will test it in the coming moons."

Above them, floorboards creak. All three men glance up.

"I'd better go check. Last time Dex snuck out of bed I found him on top of a bookshelf. Said he was hiding from gremlins." Niall rises.

The bookshelves in the library are at least ten feet tall. Sinbad prays to whatever gods might be listening that he doesn't find his own child in the rigging at Declan's age.

"And try not to worry too much," Niall says as he shifts his son on his shoulder and heads for the stairs. "The first one's the hardest. After that, they get easier."

Oh, no. No more. Absolutely not. This kid's going to be an only child. Sinbad's nerves can't take another round of this, and he's not even sure there's a first yet.

Soft footsteps sound on the stairs. Sinbad assumes it's just Niall, but a moment later Maeve enters the kitchen.

She's still half asleep, blinking blearily in the light, those soft red curls sleep-mussed, warm pink splashed across her chest where the baby's hot cheek slept. She shakes her head a little, not sure what she's looking at, then crosses to him. Soft arms wind around his shoulders. "You're here."

There. There she is. Finally. His hands reach for her, callused palms against soft blue cotton, sliding over sinuous hips, smooth waist. Her body is hard with muscle but supple with sleep, and when she rests it against him, giving him that beautiful warmth, it feels like the answer to every prayer he's ever uttered. She's safe. Unhurt. And now back in his arms, where she belongs.

Antoine grins and rises from his seat. "Be gentle with him, baby girl." He gives them the room.

Right now, Sinbad doesn't care whether he has an audience or not. All he cares about is caught in the circle of his arms, her restless, relentless energy stilled for once, paused for a moment as he holds that sweet, soft body against his own.

Dark eyes blink down at him, thick with slumber, deep honey laced with gold. "I'm sorry." The words are low, soft and fuzzy with sleep. "I fell asleep. I didn't mean to."

He's been frantic and he ought to be furious, but right now he's empty. The place inside him where anger blooms is still as the sea on a moonless night. Just the gentle weight of her arms on his shoulders, her warm, silk-soft skin pressing close, leeches away all the pain, the uncertainty. He should be angry. He has every right. But he isn't.

Her perfect pink mouth is a breath away and he reaches for it, tipping his chin up, kissing her softly. He slants his mouth over hers gently, savoring her sleepy sweetness, this rare soft moment. They fuck like rabbits, yes, in the pitch-darkness of his cabin, silent and frantic, hard and desperate. And she lets him hold her after, for a while, snatching what little sleep they can before the first hint of false dawn greys the eastern horizon. She leaves his bed each night just as resolute as she enters it, hard and alone. He loathes all of it—the silence, the darkness, the constant hovering fear. But he can't stop himself from needing her, just as she can't stop herself from coming to him, night after night, despite what it's doing to them.

Here, though—here they're safe. No one can see them, no one can spy. She's soft, thoroughly pliable with unintended sleep, and she opens willingly to him in the gentle light of the magical globes, one hand slipping from his shoulder only to rise, light fingertips feathering over his skin. She cups his cheek, as gentle as she held Lily to her heart, asleep in the tangle on her big bed. That mouth of hers is perfection and he kisses her deeper, slow as honey, dragging the flat of his tongue against hers, hearing the softest sigh of a whimper as his lips glide and suck, gentle, tender with her. He spent most of the day and half the night utterly distraught, convinced something terrible had happened to her. Even that short taste of despair, that small touch of what it might be like to live without her, tortured him nearly beyond standing. He knew he loved her before today. He didn't know how much he needed her.

Sinbad strokes her hair, capturing that plush, sweet lower lip and sucking lightly. He can't help the calluses on the pads of his fingers but he's gentle as he runs them down her throat, across her bare shoulder, bumping over the skinny strap of fabric holding her dress up. He's never touched anything as soft as her mouth, never kissed another girl as sweet as Maeve can be when she chooses. The irate banshee who cursed him out and stormed away this morning is still within her but dormant, nowhere to be found. Sleepy, apologetic Maeve is here instead, and he's a willing puddle at her feet. He tangles his fingers gently in those fire-bright curls, intent on the sweet heat of her mouth, the melting softness of those perfect, plush lips. His girl. His. Antoine says so, and he has to have faith. In this moment, he does. Her big dark eyes, her reverent hands, the taste of her tongue—it all tells him exactly what he needs so badly to hear. She's his.

"_M__o chailín_." He touches his tongue to her lips, licking slowly, gliding the tip along that wet, lush curve. She tastes like herself, and sleep, and ever so faintly like magic. "You've been conjuring."

"How do you know?"

"I can taste it on you." He sucks on her upper lip for a moment before releasing it. Her hands curl on his shoulders. "What were you doing?"

A soft gust of air leaves her mouth. She doesn't tense, doesn't pull away, but he can sense the change in her. Something in her shifts—maybe he can taste it, smell it. He presses his mouth to the tender underside of her jaw, inhaling the scent of hot, clean skin as she lifts her head, allowing him access, letting him lick the sensitive, soft curve of her throat. His question has changed something, perhaps woken her up a little. But it hasn't angered her. Not yet. He scrapes his teeth lightly over her pulse point, then closes his lips just where he sees its faint beat, holding there, feeling the steady rhythm against his mouth. She swallows, her throat constricting, muscles tensing momentarily before smoothing once more.

"Keely had us cast our spell."

Her voice buzzes, the vibrations tingling along his lips. It's intense, so intimate, feeling her words where his own sound. He presses a kiss to her hot skin and doesn't move away, inhaling the warm, clean smell of her, rain and new grass, soap and magic. She doesn't have to elaborate; he knows exactly what she means. It's too soon, he thinks, but he's a man, not a woman, and definitely not a midwife. He's not going to argue with her about timing. Especially not now, as his heart constricts and his lungs freeze, paralyzed, unable to release the breath he just took. Maeve's scent surrounds him, invades him, held deep in his lungs. In his soul. She expects him to respond, but he's honestly not sure he can.

Not with words, anyway. He can't breathe but he can move his arms. They shift, dropping to her waist, holding the warmth of her body between his palms, fingers splayed across the small of her back. She wraps herself around him, arms cradling his head tenderly, her cheek coming to rest in his hair. He swallows, throat suddenly dry. They've been assuming she's with child since the _teas_ but also waiting, waiting for the spell that will tell them for sure. A tremor quivers through their entwined bodies. Sinbad isn't sure who began it, and it also doesn't matter. He grips her tightly. This perfect body. The perfect soul within it. She's rough, as Antoine said. Scarred deeply by things Sinbad doesn't yet understand. Like a tree in the desert, she grew in defiance of her environment, in defiance of the world set so firmly against her. And she survived. He holds the living proof in his hands—scarred, yes, but unbroken.

She inhales, air filling her chest, lifting her soft breasts. Their bodies quake again and this time he's fairly sure she started it. In his hair, he feels her tense, swift little nod.

His arms clamp down. He's holding her too hard again, and he can't stop himself. The held breath rushes from his lungs as his heartbeat resumes, slamming hard and painful against his ribs.

Why the confirmation feels so overwhelming, Sinbad isn't sure. But it does. He holds her tightly, too tightly, and buries his face in the crook of her neck. His heart beats again but it won't settle back into pace, pounding hard in his ears, arrhythmic and painful. He ignores it. Maeve is sleek and warm in his arms, and she has a baby inside her. His child. Nothing else matters. He sucks in another breath full of her fresh, clean scent, acutely glad he's sitting down, still perched on a tall stool.

Women have babies every day. Sinbad himself probably has a child or two already, so he can't in full honesty call this his firstborn. But it's the first he knows of, the first that isn't a product of a one-night stand. The only one he's ever purposefully fathered. Its mother is the only woman he'll ever love. He grips her tightly and attempts to speak. "Okay." His voice is a low croak. "Okay." What else can he say?

Maeve drags her cheek from his hair. He's not letting go, but he eases his grip just enough to meet her eyes. They're incredibly dark, liquid and deep, with a suspicious damp shine. Is she crying? Maeve doesn't cry. She never cries. He's seen her close exactly twice, and he's never witnessed a tear fall. She's too strong for that—and in some ways not strong enough.

"What?" Her voice is unsteady. It dares him to call her out. He won't. Not ever. He understands about pride. "This is what you wanted."

It is. And not just for the sake of his soul. With any other girl it could be so simple: a transaction. Not with this one. She's messy; complicated. Everything they do together ends up messy, too. In this moment he welcomes it—all of it. The mess. The pain he knows will come. She's carrying his _child_. "It's exactly what I want."

Sinbad stands, evening their height, and reaches for the tight rounds of her ass, lifting her, pulling her firmly against him. She exhales a swift breath, almost a whine, but doesn't protest. Long, lean legs part, wrapping around his hips. He bears her out of the kitchen, into the sitting room, and settles with her on a soft upholstered sofa. The house is quiet, surrounded by the velvet calm of night. He can faintly hear rain falling outside, swift and hushed. Gentle golden light follows their movements.

Maeve's long legs fold behind his back and he tucks her into his chest, brushing back those silky red curls with gentle fingers. "You're shaking."

She shrugs against him. He swallows further protests. She's being sweet right now, and he has no wish to ruin the moment. Instead he combs his fingers through her hair, easing sleep-snarls from her soft curls. She melts into him, and he takes note to remember that. She likes her hair gently played with, soft fingers on her scalp, running through the bright strands. Each individual filament is fine as spider's silk, but she has a lot of them. When he gathers her hair up in his hand it's thick as her wrist.

Slowly he traces two fingertips lightly over her bare shoulder, milky skin gleaming in the dim golden light. She's so warm. Lustrously warm. Not as hot as during the _teas_, but he still craves the living heat of her. She has a dark little beauty mark hidden in the hollow of her clavicle, another where her shoulder curves down to her arm. Her skin gleams gold where the brutal southern sun sees it regularly, but these hidden spots are pale as cream. He presses his lips to the sleek sweep of her shoulder, holding the warmth of her tight. She's long and lean, slender and smooth, and he fits perfectly around her, like his body was made for hers to curl against. He strokes her hip with a gentle thumb, wondering how long it will take before she's showing, before he can press his hand low on her belly and feel the swell of his child beneath. A whole host of other problems will come then, but for now, for this one quiet moment, he refuses to let them plague him. He only wants to hold her, to touch and taste, to look at her in the light while he can. Once they leave here, their guards must come up once more. Once they leave here, she's forbidden fruit.

So he kisses her, gentle, reverent, loving her soft body with his eyes, his hands, his mouth. She hates when he tries to take care of her in other ways but she loves his touch, his body, so he lavishes her with physical affection while he's able, the only kind she readily accepts. He licks her full lips, draws her tongue into his mouth, sucking gently, rubbing the small of her back, tracing the supple line of her spine.

"Is it a boy or a girl?" he ventures to ask some time later, when he trusts his voice a little more.

"Don't know yet." She shivers when he kisses just between her eyes. "Magic can't do everything."

"Will you know before it's born?"

She nods.

Fair enough. He tucks her into his shoulder and holds her close. Doubar assumes he's getting a nephew. Sinbad knows better than that, but he doesn't know what he'd do with a girl. Mia kind of scares him, if he's honest.

"Antoine and Niall say I have to let you do this. I need to stop trying to control everything."

"I told you that first. You just refused to listen."

Yeah, he knows. But she didn't say it in a way that let him hear it. Screaming doesn't invite understanding. "_M__o chailín_. I'm doing my best here. You don't make it easy."

Her voice is small. "I know." How could she not?

"You mean everything to me. This baby means everything."

"Your soul. I know."

"No. I mean yes, but not just that." Not anymore. It started out that way. They teased; they played. Inside, he was too afraid to admit what he felt, admit he had no control over her and the way she made him feel. After losing Leah he refused to love again, but he was a child then. He isn't now. "I mean you're my family. Both of you." The Gaelic euphemism for being pregnant is _ag iompar clainne—_carrying family. That's exactly what she's doing now, carrying his family. He exhales a slow breath and tightens his arms. It's so difficult to be sure of her. She shares her body with him willingly now, and she's always spoken her mind whether he wants to hear it or not. But her heart is trickier. "Am I your _céile_?"

She draws her head away from his shoulder. Dark lashes kiss her cheeks when she blinks. She's been soft and open since waking, gentle, stirring no arguments. Now she pauses, doubtful. "That's permanent, Sinbad."

He knows. She won't marry him, won't submit to being his property, and he'll never ask her to. Not now that he knows what it means to her, how she feels. But this is different. "This is permanent, too." He drops a hand from her waist, slipping between their bodies to press low on her belly.

A tremor shivers through her, just once. He watches her eyes, sees the hundred arguments she could make. A child isn't permanent for a man. They make no sense together. She still has training, a quest. He demands control. She will not submit. They constantly piss each other off. Her brother. His brother. For so many reasons, making a permanent commitment to each other is beyond foolhardy. It's downright stupid. He doesn't care. He loves her, and he's asking her to make it anyway.

She's quiet, her dark eyes troubled. His palms press against her body, feeling the growing tension in her, her uncertainty. Maybe this isn't a good time, but he pushes ahead anyway. They can't talk outright on the Nomad; they have to play pretend. Captain and crewmember, nothing more. Who knows when he'll get another chance?

"Maeve, life isn't perfect, and it's never going to be. I will make you angry. You know I will. I'm possessive and controlling. I'm your captain, and that won't change. I will never be Niall or Antoine, and I won't sit here and promise you something I can't give."

She wrinkles her pretty nose. "You idiot. Whoever said I wanted you to? I've sailed with you for long enough, I know who you are."

He lifts his eyes to the ceiling. "You told me once, up there in that library, that you wanted someone to want you." Swallowing hard, he grasps her chin in gentle fingers and tips it down, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes dart like trapped fireflies, nervous, fearful. There's so much fear in her; he can feel it under his fingers, against his skin. That's okay. It's in him, too. She hates being pinned down, forced to answer direct questions. He hates forcing her, but he needs to know. For the sake of them all, he needs to know. "Every man who sees you wants that body, and you know it, but that's not what you mean." He knows better. She likes the attention being beautiful gets her, but it's not ultimately what she wants. "I fought what you mean to me. What you do to me. For a long time. You know it."

She nods. She knows. There was a time he almost hated her. Not for her willful spirit or smartass mouth, but for what she made him feel.

"Fighting changed nothing." He touches his mouth to hers, kissing the sweet curve of her lips. "Did it for you?"

"No."

"Then stop." His mouth skims the smooth line of her throat. "No one will ever want you like I want you. Need you like I need you. You're part of me now."

She frowns. She's a whole person, and doesn't like the implication that she's not.

He ignores her displeasure, pushing forward. "And if I'm part of you, too, then there's nothing to be afraid of."

Her frown eases, but still she hesitates. "Do you know what you're doing? Doubar hates me."

"He doesn't hate you." Sinbad brushes her lips with his fingers. "He's angry because he doesn't understand. But this fight with Scratch won't last forever. Once it's over, Doubar will apologize. Dermott will come back." He wishes he knew a better way to calm her fears. "We won't have to hide anymore." And they'll have their little one. "When that happens, what do you want?"

She can't know what she'll want in six or eight moons. That's impossible. But for right now she tucks her head into the curve of his throat and exhales a warm, shaky breath. "You."

Good girl. His body knew it, bone-deep. Soul-deep. But it takes a lot to make her admit it. "Sweet girl. Am I your _céile?_

And finally, finally she nods.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

They end up in Nessa's bed, since Maeve's is occupied. Sinbad doesn't care where they are, as long as she's with him. He got a taste today of what life would be like without her, just a taste, and it's something he can't do again. The minutes crawled, each falling grain of sand in the hourglass repulsively slow, the pain in his body ratcheting higher with every heartbeat. His anger with her cooled quickly, leaving only bitter fear, sharp and ugly, and a horrible yawning emptiness when he considered never seeing her again.

But she's here now, under his body, cradled in his arms, warm and alive and unharmed. Soft dark eyes blink at him in the light of a single glowing orb—he has to love her in pitch darkness on the Nomad and he's not putting up with that shit here. Here she's safe, and he wants to see her.

She apologized with words earlier. Now she does so without. Her mouth meets his, gentle, sweet, lavishing him with affection. Soft hands stroke through his hair, across his broad shoulders, warm, warmer than his own skin. She breaks away, leaving burning little kisses along his jaw, down his throat. He loves her mouth anywhere she wants to put it, but right now he needs the intimacy of real kisses, mouth to mouth. Gently he rolls a knuckle under her chin, lifting her back to him. Hot breath washes against his lips and he inhales, breathing her in.

"Should we be doing this?" He probably should have asked sooner, before their clothes came off. Before they rolled into Nessa's bed, which he swears isn't as comfortable as Maeve's. But he's asking now, while he can still control himself. He'll do anything for her, anything she wants, but he won't risk the safety of the child she carries.

She smiles gently before tilting her chin that last centimeter and touching her mouth to his. That slow, wet glide, impossibly tender, threatens to drag him under. That's fine. He'll happily drown in her.

"It's okay, Sinbad." She kisses the corner of his mouth. "You won't hurt us."

The 'us' nearly does him in. He strokes her cheek with callused fingertips, rough-soft, trailing his touch along her jaw, down the smooth line of her throat. "Beautiful thing." He breathes his words into her mouth. She inhales them more than hears. Her beauty, it's far more than skin-deep, more than full lips and high cheekbones, graceful build, glowing skin. It's the absolute, unwavering loyalty she's shown to him almost from the start. Her kindness toward the less fortunate they meet, the people they try to help. It's her hidden sweet tenderness, the way she holds her nieces, her refusal to give up on her brother. Sinbad kisses her again, too hungry for her taste to resist. This is a hunger that will never be sated. The _teas_ is animalistic; bestial. It burns too hot and too fierce to last. This is different.

He dips his tongue into the hollow of her clavicle, tasting damp sweat just pricking her skin. So soft. Her hands glide down his back, slow, a hot caress. His skin is so sensitized to her, so responsive, he swears he can feel each individual crease and line on her palms. If fortune-tellers are to be believed, this is the map of her. Her past, her future, maybe even her soul—it's all written plainly there, for those who can read it. She presses that map against him, skin to skin, and he swears it's branded into him, stronger and deeper than Scratch's mark.

"You're mine now," she whispers, hot in his ear. As if she can read his thoughts, one hand slips from his muscled back, pushing between their bodies to cover Scratch's ugly mark. Her touch burns with bright, hot sweetness. "He can't have you."

Maeve can be a jealous creature, he already knows. Right now it's sexy as hell. Her dark eyes burn. Strong, slim legs cup his hips, knees rising to hold him, keep his body atop hers, exactly where he is. Yes, he thinks. Claim him. It's her right—it always has been. Maybe before they ever met.

"I'm going to fix this," she vows. Her eyes gleam dark gold in the fitful light, alive with the force of her conviction. He absolutely believes her. In this moment, staring at her fiery certainty, he's without doubt. If anyone can do this, she can. "And when I do, that mark better disappear."

"I'll sear it off if it doesn't. I'd rather wear a scar for the rest of my days." Add it to the list of scars he bears. He'd sear it off now, but doing so won't change Scratch's claim.

"I'll do it for you." She flexes her fingers; tiny sparks burst and fade without harm. "Every hero wears battle scars." Her mouth touches his, slow but fierce, hot-sweet.

This war with Scratch will scar him deeply inside, Sinbad can already tell. The stakes are too high; he won't escape unscathed. He doesn't care. As long as Maeve is with him at the end, triumphant, that's all he asks.

He licks her soft mouth, tilts his head ever so slightly and deepens the kiss. She welcomes him, hands in his hair, on his skin, hot and gentle, brimming with life. He can feel that life—her flat stomach rising with each inhalation, her living warmth, hot now as he kindles the desire always simmering inside her. It's startling to realize he's holding his family as he holds her—two beating hearts, two living souls inside her perfect body. He shifts to the side, rolling off of her, holding her still with a hand on her hip when she tries to follow.

"What's wrong? I promise you won't hurt us."

"I know. I want to look at you."

She stills, leaning her head back on the pillow, submitting to his desire. "I'm still me, Sinbad."

"I know." He lifts a hand slowly, hovering over her skin, so close he swears he can feel its warmth. She glows gold in the dim magical light, a faint sheen of sweat glimmering across her flesh, like the glitter of starlight on his sea. His rough-soft fingertips touch her breastbone, just under the hollow of her clavicle, and trace a slow, feather-light line down the middle of her chest. Such fine skin, silken, the pads of his fingers gliding down, through the cleft between her perfect breasts, down her stomach, to trace a slow circle around her navel. In the dim light he can see the lightest dusting of colorless peach-fuzz, invisible under normal circumstances, backlit like a tiny halo around her body. It's so thin, so light, that he can't feel it against his fingertips, but when his hand hovers a breath from her body her skin shudders with the sensation. She's so incredibly sensitive, so responsive to even his lightest touch. Slowly his fingertips skim the graceful knobs of her hipbones, the flat space between them where his seed has taken root, a baby concealed deep with her. Safe, for now, where Scratch and Rumina can't see, can't know.

"Hey." She touches his cheek, reaching for him with gentle hands. "Come here."

He obeys, lifting his mouth to hers, his hand slipping to her waist, holding her warmth against his palm. His mouth settles over hers, breathing her breath, tongue gliding along hers, slow, feeling the hot simmer of her desire, the taste of her need on his tongue.

"I'm healthy." She cups his cheeks in her hands, her eyes so dark as she looks at him. "He's healthy. Everything is fine." Her hand strokes his hair, combing the too-long strands out of his eyes. "If you keep worrying like this, you'll exhaust yourself."

He knows, but he can't help it. "When will you start to show?" He looks forward to seeing the swelling proof of his child inside her, but fears it, too.

"Not for a while yet. A couple of moons, maybe more. A woman without magic wouldn't even know yet, Sinbad. I know you're impatient, but this is something you can't rush."

"I don't want to." He runs a light fingertip along her hairline, the slight divot of her temple, the perfect seashell curve of her ear. "As long as he's hidden, he's safe. You're safe. I don't know what to do after that." The safest thing would be for her to stay here at Breakwater, but she doesn't want to and he doesn't know if he has the strength to make her.

"Hush." Her arms rise and she draws him close. "It's not time to worry yet. And it's possible we may make it to seven moons without anyone the wiser."

Is that true? He doubts it. He knows nothing about pregnancy but he's seen women big with child, so round and awkward they look like they're hiding watermelons under their clothes. No amount of loose clothing could conceal that. He opens his mouth to argue with her, and stops.

Not right now. He's got to learn to pick his battles, and this isn't the time. She's right about that much. He has weeks and weeks yet to worry, to agonize over her safety, _their_ safety. Right now he has the opportunity to hold her in the light, to love her better than he has since the _teas_. He refuses to waste it.

"I love you." They're safe here, where Scratch can't touch them, Rumina can't see them, but he switches languages anyway. "_M__o grá thú_."

"Show me." She nips his lip with gentle teeth and leans back into the soft mattress.

He can't keep away from that mouth. He follows, shifting his body above hers once more, kissing her as her arms curl around him. He's hungry for the taste of her skin, starving for it. Earlier today he feared for her safety but thankfully—this time—she's unharmed. The heat of her body, the way she moves under him, it all tells him the same thing. She's so full of life, in this moment he could almost believe she's invincible.

Sinbad traces his mouth along her skin, silken-sweet to his lips, his tongue. She's incredibly sensitive, skin shuddering with pleasure as he cups a breast, brushing his thumb lightly over a shell-pink nipple. He loves how the tip contracts, hardening to a little point he takes into his mouth, sucking gently, running his tongue along the hard little bead. So sweet. She's long, lean muscle almost everywhere, but not here. Here she's luxuriously feminine, plush-soft, finer than the richest satin. He leaves tiny, sucking kisses along her creamy skin, savoring this rare chance to love her in the light.

"Once this mess is over, I'm never fucking you in the dark again," he vows. Never. When they can be honest about their relationship she's moving into his cabin permanently, and he's filling it with candles, or lanterns, or these magic light globes. No more darkness. No more hiding. He braces himself on one arm, threading the fingers of his other hand through her fire-bright hair, holding her to him as he kisses her. She's hungry, her kiss needy, mouth insistent on his. "And we're going to be loud. Very, very loud."

"Are not." She curls her calves over his and flips them easily, landing astride him. He yields without protest. "Because, curse or no curse, oh captain, we still live on a little ship with our friends very nearby." She bends over him, red curls spilling over her shoulder, brushing his chest. His skin tingles at the contact.

"They can deal with it." He wraps his arms around her, even as she settles the devastating heat between her legs over his throbbing cock. He bites back a curse as she rocks her hips with a teasing little roll. "It's my ship. Captain's prerogative."

She chuckles, palms hot on his chest, those tempting breasts almost near enough to kiss, but not quite. He leans forward but she rises higher, out of reach. "We're also going to have a kid, don't forget."

"How could I?" It seems to be all he ever thinks about these days. "But babies sleep a lot, don't they?"

"Yes." She nips his lip, runs her blunt human teeth over the rough texture of his chin. "But in short bursts. And they scream like hell when you wake them up."

Okay, so maybe being deliberately loud is out. But they won't have to be silent. And they won't have to spend their nights in secret, in fear. That's the most important thing. He kisses her and rolls them again, pressing her into the mattress. He aches to be inside her. He bites down on her nipple, squeezing slowly with his teeth, harder than she expects, a mounting, pinching burn that makes her hiss, her hips jerking upward into his. Just as she inhales to tell him to stop he releases her, sucking the hard bud into his mouth, laving with his tongue, soothing the sting.

"_Oh_." She melts. "More."

He sucks harder, stroking her other nipple with his thumb, rolling it gently in his fingers before palming her breast. Soon she'll suckle their child here. He's surprised by how much that image moves him—his sorceress with his child at her breast. He lifts himself to her mouth, slow, deep, sucking her tongue, pressing her down into the soft mattress with his body.

Her hips shift against the bed and she moves so his swollen cock slips between her legs, against her hot center. She rubs her slick folds against him with the rolling, teasing motion he can't resist. He hisses and breaks the kiss, gazing at her in the dim golden light. So beautiful. Her full lips are swollen from his kisses and she pants lightly, eyes dark, hungry.

"Please."

It's a word she utters so rarely that he's wholly unable to deny her. He smiles. "What do you want, _mo chailín_? My mouth or my cock?"

"Both."

Right answer.

After, he holds her close in the fitful light, both of them sweat-damp and sated, lazy and satisfied. They need to get back to the Nomad, but Sinbad isn't ready to leave just yet. He needs this time, and he suspects she does, too. She tucks herself against him, in the spot she likes on his shoulder, breathing slowly, every line of that gorgeous body speaking contentment. He hooks his hand behind her knee and draws it up to rest on his abdomen, bringing her closer. Only then does he notice two thin, open little slashes near her knee that weren't there this morning.

"What happened?" He traces one with a light fingertip. Something split her creamy skin, the edges of the narrow wound bruised violet.

"Just a little trouble in Cairo. I handled it." She nestles into him, sweetly soft, voice careless, dismissing the encounter.

Sinbad hesitates. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to risk breaking the spell of this sweet sleepiness, but he's her captain and he needs to know. "Is that why you came here? Were you hurt worse?" Coming to Firouz or Keely when injured is exactly what he wants her to do, so he has no intention of scolding her, but if there was a problem in Cairo it needs to be addressed.

"No." She tucks her head into his shoulder, hiding a yawn. It's beyond late, and she's obviously tired. They're going to have to do something about the lack of sleep she's getting. "They tried to take my bracelet. I couldn't let that happen, so I came here. Like I said, I never really meant to. I would have told you if I had."

He's not angry about that now. She's more than apologized. "Who tried to take your bracelet?" Honestly, that's more concerning to him. She needs that link to her people, and he can't imagine the danger her _sìthiche_ family would be in if that stone fell into the wrong hands.

"Just some neighborhood roughs. I told you, it was no big deal." Her voice holds a low note of warning. She wants him to drop it.

He will. For the sake of the moment, he will. But he hears what she's not saying as clearly as what she does say: she came to Breakwater because she didn't feel able to stop the thieves with sword or magic. Judicious retreat is not her style, and while he's glad that she was willing to do so, the implications worry him. Unless it was a large gang of men she shouldn't have had any trouble getting rid of them. Bringing bullies to their knees is one of her favorite pastimes. So why wasn't she able to this time?

Sinbad wants badly to demand answers, but after the disastrous day he suffered through he knows better. It's just not worth upsetting her. "You're fine?"

"Promise." She touches her mouth to his, kissing him sweetly.

Arguing with her kisses is impossible. He holds her tight to him, breathing her in. He can feel how late the hour is and they badly need to get back to the Nomad, but still he lingers. The constant need to pretend, to lie, is wearing him down. It's wearing them both down. She won't admit it, but he can feel the tension that never leaves her body except here, at Breakwater, where she knows she's safe.

"_M__o chailín_." He strokes her hot skin tenderly, handling her with care. She hasn't reached for the blankets yet, which tells him she's still feeling overheated, as she was earlier in the day. He doesn't ask, knowing she won't tell him. "I know I can't give you gifts. Even if I could, I don't know what you need."

"I don't need anything."

He's beginning to hate hearing her say that. He senses that it's not true, but he has no way to refute her. "Ant says this is your body and you need to lead. So tell me. If you don't need material objects, what _do_ you need from me? Whatever it is, it's yours."

And finally, it seems, he's said something right. Her arms slip around him and she holds him tightly. "I love you, Sinbad."

He curls around her, his chest and arms not a cage, but a shelter she chooses to willingly seek. "You know I love you."

She nods, her smooth cheek warm against his rough one. "Yeah. I know." A tiny laugh escapes her. "No one else puts up with me like you do. Not even Keely."

He doubts Keely puts up with much, even from her small children. But to him, Maeve isn't something to be tolerated or endured. He enjoys arguing with her, crazy as that sounds. Loves her wicked, sarcastic sense of humor. Her quick mind and quicker tongue. And her fits of temper are something to behold—though he'd prefer if she chose a different target once in a while.

Or maybe not. Apologetic Maeve more than makes up for the lash of her anger. "I told you, I stopped trying to fight us," he says, holding her close. "We're inevitable."

Her soft mouth brushes his cheek, kisses the corner of his mouth. "I don't know what I'll want, what I'll need, as time progresses. Right now, just some patience, please. I've never done this before." She grimaces. "And more water. Keel's orders."

Patience and water. It doesn't seem like very much, but it's a start. He kisses her soft mouth. "Okay. Whatever you need. And whatever Keely says, because I'm honestly still a little afraid of her."

Maeve chuckles. She presses close, her smiling mouth on his. "She's pregnant, too. You think she's scary now? Just wait."

So the kid was right. It doesn't surprise him. Truthfully, he's not really scared of Maeve's best friend, though her daughter makes him a little nervous. But he respects her knowledge and has no intention of contradicting her. Whatever she says Maeve needs, Maeve's getting. He combs her bright hair back with gentle fingers. "Is that why you were lightheaded earlier? You need more water?"

"Yeah." She hides a yawn in his chest. "I feel better now."

He hopes that's true. He's going to be watching her more closely than ever, even though it irks her. Pregnancy is dangerous, the most dangerous thing most women ever do, and he can't lose her. Or the child she carries. That's just not an option.

* * *

Maeve returns them to Sinbad's cabin on the Nomad. Her aim is getting better. As long as she doesn't drop them into the sea he can't complain. He stills, hearing quiet voices above them.

"You sleep." He kisses her warm forehead. "I'll tell them you've returned and be right back."

For once she doesn't argue with him. Despite the nap she took with her sisters earlier she's obviously tired. He kisses her mouth, then slips out of his cabin, making sure to close the door firmly behind him.

Doubar and Firouz are on deck; Sinbad watches as Rongar swings aboard. He can feel the late hour, hear it in the soft quiet of the harbor.

"Sinbad," Firouz greets him. "Any word?"

He nods, returning Rongar's handclasp. "Yes, thank the gods. She ran into some trouble with a neighborhood gang but she's back and unharmed." He can't tell them any more. The constant lies grate at him, but there's nothing he can do about it.

"Unharmed?" Doubar rubs his bearded cheeks. His face is red with drink.

"Mostly." Sinbad doesn't have the details himself so he can't give them. But he's run his hands along every inch of that body and found nothing except a scattering of bruises and the thin little lashes on her legs. The wounds are small and will heal quickly, and she says she didn't need Keely's help with anything worse. All he can do is trust her words.

"That's something to be grateful for." Firouz teeters as the deck shifts beneath them. He likely didn't drink as much as Doubar, but he doesn't tolerate it as well, either. Rongar grabs a fistful of shirt at the back of his neck to steady him.

"Go on to sleep," Sinbad says, smiling. "We'll skip the early tide tomorrow, head out in the afternoon. I want to lay in a better supply of water and possibly see about some fruit as well."

Firouz is tired and tipsy enough not to protest. He and Rongar make their way below, the door falling shut behind them. Sinbad pauses. He wants nothing more than to go back to Maeve, to sleep with her soft warmth in his arms for what little of the night remains, but Doubar isn't moving for the door.

"You were really worried about her, little brother." He blinks eyes bleary with wine and the late hour.

"Aye." Sinbad watches him carefully. "So were you."

Doubar brushes off the observation. "She's a member of this crew, isn't she? I'm allowed to worry."

"Of course. We both are." Sinbad shifts his weight as the ship shifts under him, a movement that's as automatic to him as breathing. He's been at sea since he was ten years old. It's his home. He never wants another.

"It's more than that with you." Doubar leans heavily against the railing. The wood creaks under his weight. "The way you look at her. Your eyes follow her. Don't think I haven't seen it."

_I love her._ "I don't know what you mean." He can't say it. There's so much he can't say, and he hates it. He looks at his brother. Doubar isn't sloppy drunk, but tipsy and tired. How much of this he'll remember tomorrow Sinbad doesn't know. If tonight were a normal night, he'd be just as drunk, loose and happy, leaning on his brother or Maeve as they slowly make their way back to the ship, flirting with her, laughing when she inevitably decks someone who gets too close. He's never seen her actually drunk, and having tasted the whiskey she grew up on, he now knows why. He doesn't regret claiming her, making her his, but he regrets the enforced silence, the lies, and the loss that comes with it. Will they ever get back to that place again, when they can all be happy together? A crew—a family?

"Will you cut that out already?" Doubar rubs his eyes. "The lying."

Sinbad tenses. Doubar knows him better than anyone. Better than Maeve. Better than Dim-Dim. Is he finally calling him out?

"I can see perfectly well what's happening here. I told you ages ago to stop it."

"I don't know what you mean," he repeats. His mind can't come up with any better reply.

"Having a little crush on the girl back before this mess with Scratch was one thing. She's a knockout, I'll admit. Prettier by far than Talia; there's no contest. But you don't have that luxury anymore."

Sinbad isn't sure how much longer he can keep playing dumb. "I don't have a crush on her." It's kind of technically true. He's in love with her. What he feels goes far beyond a schoolboy crush.

"You do, and you're going to have to get over it." Doubar stretches, his joints audibly popping. "These late nights, little brother," he groans. "I'll feel this one in the morning."

It's nearly morning now. Sinbad needs to get back to Maeve before she has to return to her own cabin, before a new day dawns. He's not ready for another round of pretending yet.

"When we leave Cairo, we're headed for Talia. It may take some time to find her, it may not. But when we do, she'll be your priority. You won't be able to play games with Maeve anymore. You'll need to convince Talia to help you, and get her with child." He rights himself. "It's just a warning. Cairo isn't the safest city, but Cyprus is better. You might think about putting Maeve ashore, if only temporarily."

Sinbad's jaw tightens. There's no way in hell he's putting Maeve ashore anywhere, for any length of time. Even if she wasn't carrying his child, he'd never allow it. The thought alone sours his stomach and his gut clenches uneasily. Doubar doesn't know it, but Sinbad has offered to put him ashore if the fighting becomes too much for Maeve to take. It's something he never in his life thought he'd consider, but she and the child she bears must be protected. Even from his brother.

"Maeve stays," he says flatly.

"I knew you'd say that." Doubar smiles, but there's no happiness to the gesture. "But I'm warning you. If Talia sees what the rest of us see, she won't want to help you. Why would she agree to carry a child for you when you're acting the lovesick fool for another girl?"

"I've never acted—" Sinbad forces himself to stop, clamping his jaw down, biting off the words. He inhales deeply, taking a slow breath. Doubar's trying to help. From his perspective, knowing what little he knows, his warning makes sense. And all of his actions, his anger toward Maeve, stem from worry, and love of his brother. Sinbad has to remember that. He blows out his breath and takes another. "I don't love Talia. I never have. She knows that." As a little child he loved Leah, and lost her. As a man he loves Maeve. No other. "I won't lie to her. I need her help, but I don't want a wife. I'll give her money, if she wants it. I'll call in favors from the caliph and Omar of Basra if I have to. But I won't promise her something I can't give."

Doubar hitches his shoulders, shrugging lopsidedly. "Talia's a pirate. I don't think she wants to wed. But she won't like being made a fool of, which is what you'll do if you keep playing these games with Maeve." He leans over, cracking his back before heading for the stairs. "Take your older brother's advice for once, and end this now. Before it's too late."

Sinbad follows. It's already far, far too late to end things, even if he wanted to, which he never will. But he takes his brother's warning very seriously. He and Maeve are clearly not being careful enough if even Doubar's noticed enough to comment.

He enters his cabin and closes the door silently behind him. There's no light—there can't be when Maeve's here—but he doesn't need it. He knows the exact number of steps to his bunk, where to step to avoid the creakiest floorboards. He sheds his clothes quickly and slips into bed, drawing the silken warmth of her body against his chest.

She half-wakes, stirring as he curls around her, pressing back against him. She's so warm that they don't need the blanket but he wraps it around them anyway, knowing she likes it. Her sweet scent soothes him and he breathes her in, willing his body to calm. They don't have much time for rest.

"_M__o grá thú_." Her whisper, full of sleep, feels sweetly painful.

He holds her tighter. The next few moons aren't going to be fun for anyone. But he has to have faith that it will all be worth it in the end. Once they've defeated Scratch. Once they can be honest with their friends again. He splays a hand across her flat belly and kisses her smooth shoulder, holding her tight. They just have to get through a little more time. Then they'll have their baby, and everything else can go back to the way it was. Back to normal. It has to.


	18. Chapter 18

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

A handful of days later they anchor off the coast of Cyprus. Sinbad watches Maeve as closely as he can while trying to be discreet. Doubar isn't the perceptive type, so if he's noticed Sinbad's increased interest in her, that means the others have, too. Firouz won't bring up the subject without prompting and neither will Rongar, but Sinbad has felt the Moor's eyes on him, watching him with that solemn, knowing look. He's a little afraid to question just how much his silent friend sees, how much he knows. More than he should, Sinbad is certain, and that's his fault, not Rongar's. He needs to take more care. Rongar will keep this secret even unto his death; that isn't a concern. But Antoine's warning of Scratch's danger lies heavy on his shoulders. No one can know. Maeve's life, and the life of the child she carries, depends on it.

Sinbad divides his attention between Maeve and the sea as they ride the surf toward a beach of coarse golden sand. He wants badly to stop her when she leaps out barely a heartbeat behind Rongar, splashing into the surf as they haul at the boat, but he has no legitimate reason to prevent her and every reason to keep his mouth shut. Irritated at his own impotence in the situation, he swallows the words he wants so badly to say and helps hoist the boat onto the shore, well above the high-tide line.

Maeve retrieves her boots from the bottom of the boat and carries them, long wet legs gleaming in the hot afternoon. One hand combs through her windblown curls, glints of copper and ruby throwing back the brilliance of the sun. She breathes deeply, lovely face turned up, soaking in the wind and sun for a long moment, looking happier than he's seen her in a while. Rongar touches her shoulder gently. When she opens her eyes, her smile is brilliant.

Sinbad forces himself to quash a completely unwarranted drip of envy. It feels ridiculously unfair that Rongar can touch her freely and he can't. Of course he knows why—he understands. That doesn't make it any easier to take when he sees her smile at another man, even a member of his crew. She doesn't want the silent Moor as anything but a friend and Sinbad doubts Rongar feels any differently, so he ruthlessly squashes down his dark flickers of jealousy and does his best to pay attention to Doubar as he talks.

He's had more than enough time to agonize over what to do once they find Talia, but Sinbad hasn't decided on a plan yet. He can't bear to bring the subject up in bed, the only time he gets with his sorceress. Not that they spend much of it talking. He's adamant about taking better care of her, which includes improving their sleeping habits. He still can't sleep without her and can't bring himself to suggest she stay in her own cabin, but he's doing his best to encourage sleep, not fucking. At least, he's trying. Sometimes it even works.

They pass from the beach through a large stand of scrub pine, spindly, dry little trees doing their best to survive in sandy, salty soil, then up a small rise, where a village sits overlooking the beach. The mud-brick houses gleam bright with whitewash. Sinbad's keen eyes scan the area for danger, but he sees nothing untoward. The gentle scent of cooking fires pervades the town, and from the far end of the main street he can hear the rhythmic metallic clang of a blacksmith.

Without discussion, they head for the small inn. It's dark inside, awnings preventing the worst of the sun from blazing through the open windows. Several men sit at a table haggling over the terms of a contract, but other than that the place is deserted. The drowsy innkeeper leans on his fist, nearly asleep in the dry, lazy heat of the day until he sees them.

"Welcome, strangers." He smiles and stretches his legs before standing. "What can I do for you?"

"Wine, my friend," Doubar says, dropping onto a bench with a small grunt. "You're looking at some very parched sailors."

The innkeeper laughs. "Aye. I know parched sailors when I see them!" He disappears into a back room, returning with a heavy ceramic amphora.

Doubar beams. "I can already see that we're going to get along."

"We're also looking for information," Sinbad says, bracing himself. There's no telling what response Talia's name might trigger. "I'd heard Talia, the Black Rose of Oman, had been seen around here."

The innkeeper sets a welter of crockery mugs on the table, none of them matching, all of them chipped. He barks a sharp laugh. "Aye, that one. She a friend of yours?"

"I wouldn't go that far," Maeve says as Rongar places a hand at her elbow, offering her a seat. He's always been the picture of chivalry with her, and Sinbad once again orders himself not to feel jealous. She's his. He can't touch her in the light of day, but that doesn't change the promise she made, or the paternity of the child she carries. She's still his. He sits on her other side, knowing he shouldn't but unable to stop himself. He needs her near, even if he can't touch her.

"Has the Black Rose tried one of her scams on you, then?" the man asks, bringing bowls of olives preserved in oil and rosemary to the table, shiny and gleaming. "Cheese and figs?"

"And plenty of them!" Doubar lifts the vessel and begins to pour.

"We've accidentally found ourselves caught up in her schemes before," Sinbad allows, careful how he phrases their past with Talia. She's a polarizing figure. Some see her as a lovable rogue. Others would like her hanged. He passes the innkeeper payment when the man returns with crumbly goat cheese, ripe figs, and flatbread.

"I'm sorry to hear it," the innkeeper says. "And aye, she's around. Couldn't say exactly where at the moment. She got into some trouble on the mainland, I heard."

"We heard that, as well," Sinbad says as Doubar chuckles. "But I doubt there are many places left where she hasn't stirred up trouble, to be honest."

Maeve rolls her eyes. He's sitting too close to her, nearly hip to hip on the rough bench. He really should move away, but he doesn't.

"She seems to have quite the reputation," Firouz says, pushing the platter of bread across the table to Rongar.

"And what good's a pirate without a reputation?" The innkeeper chuckles. "Though I'd prefer she enhance it elsewhere."

"Any guesses where to try if we want to track her down?" Sinbad watches out of the corner of his eye as Maeve eats bits of bread but doesn't touch the wine. He'll have to ask her about that later.

"Last I heard she was around the north side of the island. There are inhabited islets along that way, and it's not so very far to Crete." The man shrugs his shoulders. "She goes with the wind, as do all you sailors."

That she does. Sinbad frowns. If she heads up into the Aegean, he's not sure they'll ever catch her. Too many islands litter that area—far too many to check methodically. He has to hope she chooses a different course.

Or not. He still has no idea what to do once they find her. Doubar thinks he needs her for the Protocol, and Sinbad supposes he does. Not as his champion, but as a decoy. How to explain that to her, he doesn't know. Doubar expects a nephew out of her, since he thinks Maeve rejected Sinbad. But Sinbad has no intention of sleeping with her. Maeve won't stand for it, he knows without asking, and he has no desire to anyway. The only woman he wants currently sits beside him, so close he can feel the warmth of her leg through the thin linen of his _sirwal_.

"But the lady has no taste for wine?" the innkeeper says, catching sight of Maeve's untouched cup. "There's ale, if you prefer. Or cold well water."

She gives him a grateful smile. "Water would be lovely. Thank you."

Sinbad watches her carefully, and sees Rongar on her other side doing the same. They exchange a long, speaking glance that tells Sinbad everything. Rongar knows. He knows Maeve, and knows she would never step back with Sinbad's soul at stake, no matter what's asked of her. He may not know why they're hiding, why they feel the need to lie, but he knows Maeve and trusts his captain.

Sinbad allows himself the tiniest nod, a solemn acknowledgment of all Rongar can't say. In this moment, he's more grateful for the Moor than he can express. Doubar and Firouz might still be in the dark, but he has an ally on his ship now, someone who can help him watch over Maeve and keep her safe.

The innkeeper brings her water, which she thanks him for. Sinbad doesn't know why she doesn't want her wine, but she seems otherwise fine so he does his best not to worry. She eats flatbread and olives and little crumbles of salty goat cheese, arguing good-naturedly with Firouz about the existence of minotaurs.

"They're physically impossible," Firouz insists. "A...a mishmash made up by storytellers eons ago."

"I don't know." She passes the dish of olives across the table to him. "I've never seen one, but I've seen other things you say don't exist. _You've_ seen things you say don't exist. It may be time to stop saying it."

"Those ghosts were a mass hallucination. I said it then, and I still say it now."

She chuckles, the sound low and sweet. "You keep believing that."

"I do," he insists.

"What about Poseidon?"

Momentarily speechless, Firouz scratches his nose as he fumbles for words. Doubar's rumbling laugh erupts, and Sinbad follows. It feels incredibly good to laugh like this, to have a moment to just...be themselves again. No curses. No lies. Just them, just as they are. He brushes his knuckles gently against her bare leg under the table.

"The scientific method is all about trial and error," Firouz says finally, passing his empty cup to Doubar to refill. "One formulates a hypothesis, then tests its veracity. Being proven wrong isn't failure. It's progress."

Maeve smiles wistfully. "I wish everyone felt that way."

"I've always said science will rule one day."

She wrinkles her lovely nose. "Not that part. I mean not feeling like a failure when they're wrong. Maybe if men weren't so afraid of being wrong, there would be less war." She lifts her shoulders in a shrug and pushes her half-finished cup aside.

Sinbad taps the side of her smooth thigh lightly with his fingertip, hidden under the table. When she glances at him he lifts an eyebrow and looks meaningfully at her cup. She needs her water; even Keely said so.

She shakes her head, the barest shift of movement. "Tastes off." Her voice is too low for the innkeeper across the room to hear.

Doubar rolls his eyes. Sinbad ignores him. Maeve definitely knows how to complain when she wants to, but she's never complained about food before, no matter how meagre the quantity or poor the quality. After hearing some of the comments Antoine has made about her past, he thinks he understands why she doesn't. Can being with child affect her stomach or sense of taste? He files it away to ask the next time they're at Breakwater.

"Have you sailed around Cyprus before?" Firouz asks, changing the subject. "How long will it take to get to the north side of the island?"

"Depends on the tides, and the weather. There's a great natural harbor at Lefka; I think that's where we'll head first." Out of curiosity, Sinbad sips Maeve's water. There's a bitter hint to it, perhaps from the use of a metal bucket or something in the well. Nothing that would ordinarily stop Maeve or any other sailor from drinking it. He shrugs internally and lets her be. Arguing with her about it at this point will only bring more unwanted attention.

"I didn't like the look of those clouds this morning, little brother." Doubar empties his cup and quickly refills it.

"I know." Storms in the Mediterranean tend to be gentler than other places he's sailed, but he's still not interested in encountering one. "If the windward sky looks bad later this afternoon, we may just remain overnight. Safer that way."

Doubar frowns. "We need to find Talia. Soon."

"We will." Sinbad drops his hand, letting his fingers brush Maeve's warm skin under the table. He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. But she's sitting so close, and his hands are drawn to her, a moth to her flame. She hooks her index finger with his lightly, just for a moment, a sweet gesture of understanding before pushing him gently away. Smart girl. She's stronger than him, at least where this is concerned. She loves his touch and she can't stop herself from slipping into his bunk at night, but she's much better able to control herself during the day, when the light shines. He's terrible at it. He craves the touch of her skin, her low, sweet laugh. The tender smile he still stubbornly swears is only for him.

"You're dragging your feet like you're facing an executioner, not a pretty woman." Doubar flicks his eyes at Maeve, who ignores him, then back to Sinbad. "You're the one who wanted to search for Talia in the first place."

"I still do." It's…almost not quite a lie. He needs a woman—or several women, preferably—to act as a decoy and keep the pressure off of Maeve. How to explain that to Talia, and keep her and Maeve from fighting, he has no idea. "I just don't feel the same sense of urgency you do. We have plenty of time, brother."

"Say you. I say you need all the time you can get. You still have to convince her to help you, which may be a job. I didn't expect any woman to turn you down, but apparently I don't know girls as well as I thought I did." His eyes burn with resentment as they turn toward Maeve. She scowls but refuses to drop her gaze, daring him to call her out by name. To Sinbad's relief, he doesn't.

"He does have a point," Firouz says, spitting an olive pit into his hand. "What if Talia refuses?"

"Both the caliph and Omar owe me enough that she won't be able to refuse." Sinbad's tone darkens. Maeve agreed to help him, and risk her life doing so, in return for basically nothing. He vowed to take care of her, which she doesn't want. She's getting nothing for her trouble except the chance to save him, to keep him. He knows even without asking that Talia will not do the same. Whatever she agrees to, she'll expect to be paid extremely well for it.

"Didn't al-Alawy say you couldn't pay a woman to be your champion?" Firouz dips a piece of bread in the bowl of oil and olives.

"He said I couldn't pay a stranger to do it. He didn't say anything about compensating a friend."

"It still feels off to me," Firouz says through a mouthful. "History isn't my area of expertise, let alone myth and legend, but don't these hero quests usually require some sort of selfless act?"

"Ask al-Alawy next time you see him." Sinbad pushes his cup toward Doubar to refill. "I'm sick to death of books and myths and curses. Give me a petty usurper or a bullying warlord to fight any day."

"Hear, hear." Doubar slides his cup back. "Magic be damned."

Beside Sinbad, Maeve tenses. He touches her gently once more, brushing a light fingertip along the curve of her knee. "I wouldn't go that far." He drinks, forcing his hand away from her skin. "Magic has got us out of quite a few scrapes. And we'll need it to find Dim-Dim."

Doubar's blunt face sobers at the mention of their old master. "If Dim-Dim were here, he'd know how to fix this mess."

Would he? Sinbad doesn't know. Antoine and al-Alawy, both experts in their own ways, say the only way out of Scratch's claim on his soul is the Tam Lin Protocol. Dim-Dim can't change that. But he's certain that, were his mentor here, he'd find a way to smooth things over between Doubar and Maeve. That would alleviate a great deal of tension, and ease Sinbad's worry for her. He can't help that she's a target for Scratch and Rumina, but he feels responsible for her rift with Doubar.

"Dinar said we couldn't find Dim-Dim without the bees and the daffodils, whatever that means." Maeve rests her chin in her hand.

"No, he said _you_ couldn't find him without them," Doubar snaps. "I refuse to be fettered by an exhausted old man's deathbed raving."

Maeve's had enough. Sinbad can sense it even before she rises. She's been remarkably tolerant, especially for her, ignoring Doubar's jabs at her since Cairo. She's taken to leaving his presence when she can't tolerate it any more, which is fine on board ship, but now Sinbad puts out a warning hand, just managing not to touch her.

"Don't. Remember the thugs in Cairo?"

She rolls her eyes, prepared to ignore him. Sinbad braces for a fight, but Rongar rises swiftly and offers her his arm. His eyes find his captain's. He'll stay with her. He won't let her come to harm.

Sinbad relents. It's not safe for him to be alone with her in the daylight, considering who might be watching and how poorly he hides his feelings. Rongar will protect her with his life; she's as safe with the Moor as she can possibly be. He nods at Rongar, and his two crewmembers quickly leave the inn. Maeve doesn't put up a fuss about her bodyguard, which surprises him a little. Maybe the incident in Cairo scared her more than he originally thought.

"Lay off her," he says, settling back in his seat, looking squarely at Doubar.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Doubar drinks. He attempts to look unconcerned, but deception isn't one of his strong suits and he fails miserably. He hates arguing with his brother, and it shows.

"Yes, you do, and I've told you before to stop. She made her choice. It's in the past. We're searching for Talia, and you have to move on."

Doubar's face darkens. "Take your own advice, brother."

Sinbad slams his fist on the table. He's so incredibly tired of this, of the bickering, the simmering resentment. "So what if I like her? Why is that so wrong? Because she doesn't want to bear children? I'd be just as happy without, anyway."

Doubar blanches. "Because she's unreliable! She proved that by putting her own wishes above the worth of your soul!" His bushy eyebrows lower like thunderclouds.

"She said she'd help me if she was my only choice, but she isn't. That's why we're here, and I'm sick of having the same argument with you over and over again." They're getting strange looks from the other patrons in the inn. Sinbad lowers his voice. He's tired and anxious, still undecided about what to tell Talia, and his heart hurts. Doubar is his brother. For so long, he was the most important person in his life—his only tie to his lost parents, his only blood relative. They've hardly ever been apart, and they've never clashed so badly as they do over Maeve. Something cold touches his blood, like tiny chips of ice growing in his veins. What if this can't be fixed? He loves Maeve with everything he is, every fiber of his being. But Doubar is his blood. What if he's forced to choose?

No. No, he tells himself firmly. It won't happen. He's in control of himself, in control of the situation. He reshaped his future after Leah died, and he can do it again. He needs his brother and his love, and he refuses to settle for one or the other.

"I can't stop you from being angry. Fine. _Be_ angry. Waste your energy sulking, if that's what makes you happy. But stop antagonizing her. She's been patient, but at some point she's going to snap and you won't like the consequences." Of that Sinbad is positive. Maeve isn't deliberately vicious but when she lights she's like one of Firouz's exploding sticks. Whatever form her anger takes, it won't be pretty.

"Or maybe I'll snap and _she_ won't like the consequences." Doubar stares into his mug, his face dark with anger.

Firouz puts a wary hand on the big man's shoulder. "Don't say that, Doubar."

"Listen to Firouz." Sinbad stands swiftly. He can't believe what he's hearing and he isn't interested in listening anymore. It's the drink talking. It has to be. "I need some air."

Outside, the evening heat bakes the island but a stiff breeze blows from the east. Sinbad walks swiftly through the scrub pine surrounding the village. He's tense, and the icy crystals of fear in his blood seem to be growing. He looks to the east, dark clouds moving swiftly toward the island. Is that the seat of his unease—just a change in the weather? He's been on the sea so long he can feel coming storms in his bones, an aching, unsettled feeling deep within. He feels it now, staring at the gathering darkness. But is that all?

No. No, he feels far more than just a threatening storm. He respects the sea and what it can do but he isn't afraid of it. He's refused to fear the elements since losing Leah. He's scared now, but not of the gathering clouds, the scent of lightning on the wind. Scared for Doubar. Maeve. Himself. Rongar and Firouz. Maeve's family at Breakwater. Everyone he cares about will be collateral damage if the Protocol doesn't work, and even if it does, what then? What will he be left with? A wrecked brotherhood? A crew forced to pick sides? What about their search for Dim-Dim? What about everything they've faced together up to this point?

Sinbad rubs his forehead and clasps his hands behind his neck, lifting his face to the sky, feeling the westering sun on his scalp, warming him. Sunset will come soon, the storm close on its heels, rolling ever closer. He closes his eyes and feels the air around him, lets his bones and his gut tell him what they know. It won't be a terrible storm—not like the one that sank his last ship—but he refuses to risk the Nomad and her crew. They'll weather the storm where they are, and continue to the north side of the island in the morning.

The sound of swift feet interrupts Sinbad's quiet moment. He turns, reluctantly opening his eyes. "Rongar?" The Moor is distressed, black eyes wide, heaving deep breaths as he urgently beckons Sinbad to follow.

Sinbad does without argument. "What happened?" He pushes into a run, matching Rongar's long strides. "Where's Maeve?" He's supposed to be watching her.

Rongar shakes his head tightly as they run, pointing down to the beach, their longboat a dark speck on the sand.

Sinbad's uneasy feeling erupts into true fear. Rongar has longer legs and is usually faster, but Sinbad puts on a burst of speed and pulls ahead. He catches himself on the side of the boat, panting, leaning into the vessel.

She's curled on the wet, sandy bottom of the boat, convulsing.

"What happened?" Sinbad demands.

Rongar mimics vomiting, then holds his fist in the air and drops it abruptly. He pretends to lift someone into the boat.

"We need Firouz." Sinbad touches the tangle of her hair. He feels useless, and he hates it. She shakes, not as if she's cold, but as if she's having a fit. She retches, and he's horrified to see her bring up nothing but dark blood.

Rongar points to the path leading up to the village. Doubar and Firouz are there—he must have gone to the inn first before seeking Sinbad elsewhere. Firouz hustles, but Doubar is slower, harried by the amount of wine he drank.

Sinbad cups a hand around his mouth and shouts. "Hurry!" It's the demand of a captain, but also just a terrified man. Some women get sick when they're pregnant, he knows, but this isn't just an upset stomach. He leaps into the boat and crouches near her, hand on her shoulder, but there's nothing he can do. He doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't know how to help, and he's terrified to even touch her. She groans, her tight face a mask of pain, dark blood smeared on her soft lips.

"I'm here," he says, feeling as if the air's being squeezed out of him. He forces his lungs to expand, dropping his head near hers, hoping she can hear him. The violent movements of her body don't cease. He squeezes her arm, unable to do anything else. He doesn't even have the ability to fetch Keely, because he can't work the spell to take him to Breakwater. "Please, just hold on. Firouz is coming, and I'm here."

She doesn't answer; whether she can hear him or not he can't guess. She retches again, dark blood staining the sandy bottom of the boat.

"I'm here," Firouz pants, leaning over the side of the boat. "What happened?"

"Rongar says she got sick and collapsed." Sinbad doesn't recognize his own voice. It sounds like it's coming from a million miles away. "She's bringing up blood. Help her!"

Firouz climbs nimbly into the boat, observing her convulsions with his keen gaze. He touches her forehead and cheek with the back of his fingers. "She's cold." He frowns and takes her wrist, the pads of his fingertips measuring her pulse. "Way, way too fast." He runs his tongue along the front of his teeth as he thinks.

"Can you slow it down?"

"I have several concoctions that can do that, yes, but until I know what's causing the convulsions I don't know if any of them are safe to give her." He watches as she retches and coughs, spitting up blood.

"Well, figure it out!" Sinbad snaps.

"I'm doing my best!" Firouz uses the pad of his thumb to gently lift her eyelid. Her pupil is hugely dilated, almost swallowing the golden-brown of her iris. Sinbad is positive she can't see them.

"Well, do better!" Sinbad knows Firouz isn't to blame, but he's close to panic himself. He pushes into the bottom of the boat, lifting her head to rest on his knee, holding her gently. He can't bear to watch her shake like this anymore, but his small attempt to soothe her does nothing. The tremors wracking her body are strong, seizing her despite his hands.

"Sickness from bad food takes more time to set in," Firouz says, sounding nearly as desperate as Sinbad feels. "And it doesn't hit this hard."

"And we all ate the same food," Doubar pants as he finally reaches the boat. "She shouldn't be the only one sick." He grabs the side of the longboat and leans heavily on it, reeling with wine after his lurching run.

"Magic of some sort? A curse?" Sinbad strokes her hair, holding her head on his knee as firmly as he dares. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he doesn't want her to hurt herself either as she thrashes.

"If so, I'm of no use." Firouz observes her struggling body, how she pants. "It doesn't look like magic," he says hesitantly. "That's not a scientific statement, just a stray observation."

"Well, what does it look like?" Sinbad demands. He's quickly losing patience with Firouz, but he has no one else to turn to. He strokes her cheek with his rough thumb, holding her hair back gently as she retches once more.

"Poison, to be honest," Firouz admits, though Sinbad can tell from his voice that he doesn't want to.

Poison. Sinbad doesn't know what to think, what to feel. Is this answer better than no answer at all? "What poison?"

"Ah...that's the hard part. Many substances elicit similar symptoms."

Maeve writhes in his grasp. She's white as the surf despite the exertion of her body, and he knows she's in pain even though she can't say so. She groans again, the sound low and rough, rolling out of a throat gone raw.

"Figure it out!" Sinbad snaps. Losing her isn't an option. Losing the child she carries isn't an option. He grabs her flailing hand, feeling the hard metal of her useless bracelet under her sleeve. He'd take her to Keely in an instant if he could, but he doesn't know how and has no magic besides.

"Ah…" Firouz hesitates.

"What?" Sinbad is in no mood for games. Maeve needs help _now_.

"The, ah, generally accepted method of testing isn't advisable in this case."

"Why not?"

"You'll kill me," Firouz says flatly.

"What? I won't." Sinbad stares at the man. Has he gone mad?

"You will."

Sinbad glowers. "I'll kill you if you don't."

Firouz turns almost as white as Maeve. Swiftly, shrinking from his captain as he moves, he leans down and licks Maeve's bloody mouth.

Sinbad has to physically restrain himself from punching his best friend. He holds Maeve's head carefully and wills himself not to explode.

Firouz's face scrunches up in an intense expression of disgust and he spits over the side of the boat. "Aconite," he says, wiping his tongue with his sleeve, still grimacing. "Rongar, did she eat or drink anything after you left the inn?"

The Moor shakes his head, his face solemn.

"I don't care how it happened! How do we stop it?" Sinbad demands. "Do you have an antidote on the ship?"

Firouz shakes his head slowly. "Aconite has no antidote. I have medicinal charcoal. That may help. And water to dilute the poison." He has trouble meeting Sinbad's eyes. "That's the extent of what science can do."

Sinbad wants to demand what good science is if it can't save a life—this life. The woman who means everything to him and the child she bears. He forces the words back. They won't help Maeve, only upset Firouz, who doesn't deserve his anger. He motions Rongar and Doubar into the boat impatiently. "Whatever you have, whatever you can do to help her, do it," he demands of his physician, sliding Maeve's head gently off his leg. He shucks off his vest and places it under her cheek, reaching for an oar.

They work as a team, the argument in the inn forgotten. Doubar and Rongar shove the boat out into the surf and jump in. They row, maneuvering carefully around Maeve's huddled, shaking form, tight-lipped, silent save for their panting breaths as they pull at their oars, fighting the surf until they break free into calmer water, aiming for the Nomad. The threatened storm is almost upon them, too, but Sinbad can't care about that now. He's too concerned with the woman in the bottom of the boat, still convulsing as her body fights the poison. He has no idea what aconite is, who poisoned her, how, or why, and right now he really doesn't care. He just needs Firouz to fix it.

"That library you visited," Firouz pants, hauling at his oar. "The one she has a door to?"

"What about it?" Sinbad is in no mood for the man's rambling tangents right now.

"Someone there might know better than me. Or have access to more medicines." He heaves a panting breath. "I can't make any promises about her recovery, Sinbad. I'm open to suggestions."

So is Sinbad, but Breakwater isn't an option. "I can't open the door," he says as they draw alongside the ship. "So whatever knowledge they have is useless to us." He lifts her carefully, knowing he should let Doubar or Rongar do it instead but really not giving a shit. She struggles, but he's stronger. He hates putting her over his shoulder like a sack of grain but he has no choice as he climbs to the deck. Rongar beats him over the side and takes her carefully from him as Sinbad swings up onto his ship.

"Storm's coming." He breathes deeply. "Best prepare. I'll come help as soon as I can."

Rongar shakes his head as he hands Maeve's body back to his captain. He taps her hand lightly, then squeezes Sinbad's shoulder.

"I know, but you need me, too."

Rongar shakes his head again and points firmly at the door before reaching for a line, helping Doubar begin to haul the boat up.

"Truthfully, she probably doesn't know you're there," Firouz pants as he catches his breath.

Rongar whacks him upside the head.

"Well, it's true." Firouz rubs his head as he opens the door.

Sinbad doesn't care. He fumbles down the steps into the blackness of the galley, blind until Firouz lights a lantern. The inventor opens the door to Maeve's tiny cabin and Sinbad places her carefully on her narrow bunk. He strokes her hair back and forces himself to step away.

"Take care of her," he says tightly.

"You have to batten down the hatches. I know." Firouz lights another lantern. "I'll do my best."

He always does. Sinbad clenches his jaw and forces himself to move, to leave Maeve's side. She's strong, and in knowledgeable hands. The best thing he can do for her now is make sure the Nomad weathers the storm.

Back on deck, his crew have things well in hand. He climbs into the rigging. They need to stow the sails, and close the ship as tightly as they can. Doubar issues orders in his gruff, booming voice, and Sinbad lets him. His body works on autopilot as his mind struggles to absorb what's happening below.

He can't lose her. He _can't_. Not just because of the child she carries, but because of everything she is to him, everything she means. He feels oddly distant from his body, as if he's watching himself work, observing his motions from far away. He can feel the pain of his panic, the rushing turmoil in his body, but it's muted, somehow. Like running in deep water, or moving in a dream. He can't lose her. The frantic beat of that thought, those words, is all he knows. His heart staggers as it beats against the jagged edges of his fear, knives which slice deep. He needs her. Why doesn't matter anymore, only the need. They make no sense together, and that's fine. He loves her desperately anyway. More than anything. He'd happily switch places with her right now if he could.

When there's nothing left on deck to do, he returns below. The wind has picked up and the ship rocks and bobs in the water, air whistling through tiny chinks in the hull. Sinbad ignores it, seeking her cabin, the solace of her presence.

She's still when he returns, though she looks anything but peaceful. Even in dim lantern light, she's ice-white. Firouz kneels next to the bed, a cup in his hand. Shadowed eyes turn to his captain. Sinbad can see by the fine lines around his eyes, his mouth, that his news isn't good.

"I need to flush her system, but she won't drink."

"Is she even conscious?"

"Doubtful." Firouz touches the soft inside of her wrist once more, and shakes his head. "Still too fast."

"What about _al'ufiun_?"

"From the poppy? I have some, but it's not a good idea."

"Why not? It makes you sleepy. Doesn't that mean it could slow her heart?"

"Or stop it."

"There has to be something you can do!"

Firouz puts the cup to her lips again, but her body does not respond. "I gave her some charcoal, but she's become unresponsive. This fight is hers to win or lose now. I'm sorry, Sinbad. But there are limits even to science."

Sinbad wants to throttle the man. He paces in and out her open doorway, her cabin nearly too small for three people at once. There has to be something else they can do. There _has_ to be.

"I'll check my texts," Firouz says, rising. "It's possible I missed something."

It's not actually possible, not for Firouz, but Sinbad doesn't argue with him. If Firouz can't do anything more, he wants to be alone with her. He sits cautiously on the edge of her bunk. The straw mattress rustles, the sound nearly lost in the creaking of the ship. Vaguely, from outside, he hears the first spatters of rain.

She's so beautiful. Strong, he tries to tell himself. Resilient. If anyone can fight off a poisoning, she can. He has no idea what good charcoal can do but he trusts Firouz. And her. He bends and presses his lips carefully to her damp forehead. What does stealth matter now? She's sweaty but shivering, her skin far too cool. The violent convulsions have eased, but Firouz didn't seem to think that was a good thing. Sinbad doesn't know what to think. He takes her wrist just as he watched Firouz do, pressing the pads of his fingers to the tender flesh. Her pulse trips and races, far too fast and far too light. Blood stains her cracked lips.

She needs Keely. He strokes her hair, not caring who might be watching, either through the open door or magically. She needs more help than Firouz can give. Firouz is the best scientist Sinbad has ever met, but there are limits to every discipline. Keely is no physician, but her mix of folk remedies and magic has kept Maeve alive and largely unharmed thus far. She needs her now. He takes her left hand in his and pulls her sleeve up, revealing the silver gleam of her bracelet. He runs his thumb over the polished face of the opal, milky white until the sun hits it just right, when it flares into life. Its colors lie dormant in the dim glow of a single lantern, as pale as the girl who wears it. He wishes with everything he is that he could use the spell stored in the stone to transport Maeve to her people. To save her.

Maeve jerks, a single tremor shaking her body. She whimpers softly. Her cracked lips look like they've been burned. He squeezes her hand and runs his thumb over the opal once more. They need Keely. Far more than when Rumina shoved Maeve out the window of Omar's library. He saved her then. He can't save her now.

Maeve trembles softly, and suddenly the bracelet on Sinbad's wrist bursts into life. It glows, the rainbow colors so bright his eyes water. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear them. Before his jumbled thoughts come under control, the stone on Maeve's bracelet wakes, too. Instead of glowing red with her magic, it shimmers with all the colors of the rainbow.

He doesn't stop to think. Doesn't even consider the possible consequences. He touches the stone.

* * *

Traveling with Maeve's bracelet has never hurt before. This time it does. He feels as if he's being torn apart, like he's the rope in a giant's game of tug-of-war. Bitter cold takes him, and he can't breathe. There's no air. He struggles, suspended somewhere between two realities for an agonizing moment that feels like forever. Then suddenly he's falling, crashing to the ground, flat on his back in cold, wet grass.

Breakwater. The green, living scent of the place comes swiftly as he sucks in air, grateful to be alive, for his lungs working, his heart beating. He blinks sparkles from his vision as he hears a door slam, then pounding feet in wet grass.

"What the everloving fuck do you think you're doing?"

Keely's either outraged or worried and hiding it well. He struggles to sit, and finds he can't. His head spins and reels, a splitting headache crashing down. He groans and closes his eyes again, but the spinning doesn't stop. With all the strength he can muster he manages to turn to the side before heaving up the contents of his stomach.

"Serves you right, messing with things you have no business touching." Despite Keely's words, Sinbad feels gentle hands cool on his head. Instantly the pain recedes. He breathes shakily, not trusting his voice just yet. "Where's my girl? Do I have to yell at her, too, or was this stunt all your idea?"

"Help her," he groans. His throat burns like fire, and an awful bitter taste won't leave his tongue. "Please," he grates out, struggling to be understood. He coughs and spits.

"What's wrong?" Big hands close over his shoulders, helping him sit. Antoine. "What's wrong with Maeve?"

Sinbad tries again. "Poison, Firouz said. Please." Fuck, that hurts. His throat feels like he swallowed one of Maeve's fireballs.

"Which poison?" Keely snaps, and Sinbad can hear the fury rising in her impatient voice.

What had Firouz said? He can't remember. The pain in his head has lessened but not disappeared, and it feels like he's thinking through layers and layers of cotton. He shakes his head helplessly and the motion makes him retch again.

Keely exhales an irritated breath. "No time! Hold still."

Oh, no. He's not traveling by magic. Never again. He tries to pull away.

"I'm coming, too," Antoine snaps.

"You absolutely are not! You have no idea where she is; it's not safe. Take care of your girls." Keely grabs hold of the shoulder of Sinbad's shirt.

"Maeve's my girl, too," Antoine argues.

Sinbad tries to pull away from Keely's grasp. He desperately wants to be back with Maeve, but he doesn't think his body can withstand another trip like that. Keely's fist tightens on his sleeve even as he tries to protest and they abruptly disappear, leaving her angry _céile_ arguing with the air.

* * *

They arrive in Maeve's tiny closet of a cabin, exactly where Sinbad left. He plops down in the same position even, seated on the edge of Maeve's bunk. He blinks, bracing for more pain, but he feels no worse than he did a moment ago. He's disoriented, and his throat and mouth burn like hell, his headache calmed but not banished. He'll live.

Keely shoulders him roughly aside, pushing into his spot at Maeve's side. She's tiny but strong, and she won't be denied.

The clatter of breaking crockery sounds, and Sinbad turns his head to see Firouz open-mouthed in the doorway, the broken shards of a mug at his feet. He ignores him. Explanations will have to wait. Maeve is more important.

Keely doesn't hesitate, bending to lick Maeve's lips exactly as Firouz did earlier. Sinbad really wishes everyone would stop doing that. Instead of making a disgusted face, she looks furious. "Monkshood."

"Ah, Sinbad…" Firouz begins.

Sinbad coughs. His throat feels like something's eating through it. "Not now," he croaks.

Keely's head snaps to him at the sound of his raw voice. "Do you taste something bitter? Burning?"

"Like fire."

"Anyone else?" she demands.

Sinbad looks at Firouz, who lifts his shoulders helplessly.

"Well, figure it out!" Keely settles herself more securely on Maeve's narrow bunk. "Monkshood's far worse coming up than it is going down. Don't ask me why. You and anyone else with a burning mouth, drink yourselves just this edge of sick on anything but alcohol."

Sinbad doesn't move.

"I'm serious!" she snaps. "You need to wash it out of your body, and I don't mean next week! No ale or wine, but anything else—water, milk, fruit juice, tea, anything. Go!" She points imperiously at the door.

Sinbad stumbles to his feet, his legs weak and shaking, but he's more afraid of Keely's temper right now than he is of falling. He pushes Firouz before him, which seems to wake the scientist from his stupor. He dips up a mugful of water from their stores and drinks, Firouz following his steps but casting uneasy glances back at Maeve's open doorway.

"Who is that?" he demands. "Where did she come from?"

"The library," Sinbad croaks. "Don't ask me how."

"I thought you said you couldn't reach them?" Firouz sounds doubtful.

Sinbad shrugs and drains his mug, though his throat hurts like hell. He breathes, then dips up more. Keely said to drink, so he drinks. He doesn't understand the magic in his bracelet, but it's saved him more than once and now it may have saved Maeve, too.

Sudden, intense green light bursts through Maeve's open doorway. Firouz jerks and makes a noise of protest, starting forward. Sinbad catches his shoulder and shakes his head. "Let them be." He drinks more. Fuck, that hurts. It hurts like no sore throat he's ever had before.

"But that's my patient!"

"You said you couldn't do anything else for her." Sinbad's voice is nearly gone, and he has to struggle to make himself heard. He drinks until his stomach sloshes, uncomfortably close to being sick again, just as Keely ordered.

"But what if she's making things worse?"

"She isn't." This much he knows for sure. Keely would never do anything to harm Maeve, any more than Firouz would.

After a moment, Firouz relents. His eyes remain on Maeve's doorway, the unnatural green light shining through it. "I'm sorry," he says, even as he stares. "I had no idea you were affected, too."

"Don't worry about me." Sinbad's voice is reduced to a whisper. "All I wanted you to do was help Maeve. You did what you could. Is anyone else affected?"

"I don't think so, but I can ask."

Sinbad waves him away. The ship pitches violently beneath them, and he hears Keely yelp and swear. The green light flickers off.

Sinbad is in the doorway in a heartbeat. "It's storming," he says, struggling to clear his throat.

"Because of course it is," Keely grumbles. She shoves the lock of green hair out of her eyes and puts her hands back on Maeve. One rests gently on her chest, just below her collarbone, the other on her belly. Bright green light appears once more. It's in her hands, flowing from her into the unresponsive body on the bed. "How the fuck did you manage to get poisoned on the sea?"

"We're not at sea."

"Feels like it." She grimaces as the ship moves, rising with a tall wave, then dropping fast down the other side. "I'll never laugh at anyone who complains about seasickness again."

"It's not usually so bad." He coughs. "And I don't know how she was poisoned. We all ate the same food."

"Try not to cough. I can help your throat along when I'm done here."

Sinbad opens his mouth to ask whether Maeve is going to be okay, but a wet hand shoves his shoulder. He turns and Rongar pushes past him into the crowded little cabin. He's soaked with rain, and takes in the stranger without so much as a blink. He taps the mug in Sinbad's hand and mimics drinking from it.

"Oh." The water at the inn. "She didn't drink the wine. He offered her water instead." Fury churns Sinbad's gut. They've never seen that innkeeper before in their lives. Why would he poison a member of Sinbad's crew? "It tasted off. She didn't finish it. I just thought that's how their well tasted."

"If she had finished it, she'd probably be dead right now," Keely says flatly.

"Please. Is she going to be okay?"

"Aye. Someone gave her charcoal quickly, which makes my job much easier."

"What about—" He clamps his jaw shut, just barely in time.

Keely glances at him, and he's surprised to see understanding in her sharp green eyes. "Unharmed. If that was their specific aim, your poisoner picked the wrong substance. Plenty of others are good for that, but monkshood's not subtle enough. This was meant to kill."

Sinbad's fists clench at his sides. When this storm passes, he's going to have a talk with that innkeeper. Using his saber. "It makes no sense."

"Does violence ever?"

He leans against the wall as the ship pitches, his knees still a little shaky. Maeve's books slide from her shelf and he lets them fall; picking them up in the middle of a storm is useless. Keely flinches at the crash. Maeve does, too, but she doesn't wake.

"Why didn't we notice this burning when we drank the water?"

"Monkshood's worse coming back up than it is going down, I told you."

He frowns. "I don't think that's what Firouz called it."

She shrugs. "That's what it is. Monkshood. Aconite. Wolfsbane. Devil's helmet. It goes by many names, but its bitter burn is unmistakable."

Yeah, Sinbad's not going to forget this feeling, both the inferno eating away at his throat and the crushing, immobilizing fear of losing Maeve. He steps forward and sits cautiously at the end of her bed, near her booted feet. He knows better than to touch her while Keely's working, but he can't keep away. She looks like a corpse bathed in Keely's green light, an odd sickly, ghostly pallor to her skin, but he can see the slight rise and fall of her chest as she breathes, and he watches it, willing that small movement to comfort him. She's going to be okay. Keely promised, and she's not the type to make promises she can't keep.

"We've never met the man before. There was no reason for this."

Keely glances at him, at Rongar hovering in the doorway. "Wasn't there?"

Maeve's carrying his child, yes, a child Scratch and Rumina would desperately want out of the way if they knew. But how would they know? How would anyone? Maeve said herself that a woman without magic might not even know yet.

Keely sits up, lifting her hands from Maeve's body. The green light fades, and Keely stretches her neck and shoulders, tight from sitting hunched over Maeve's still form.

"Will she wake?"

"When she's ready." Keely strokes Maeve's smooth forehead. "She needs a good night's sleep." The ship pitches, creaking loudly. She grimaces. "Maybe I should take her home for the night."

Sinbad hesitates. He won't be sleeping tonight, regardless. But he doesn't think Maeve will like being moved without her permission.

"You can come, too. You know that."

He shakes his head. "I'm the captain. I can't leave my ship in a storm." He dares to touch Maeve's skin now that Keely's done, just the lightest brush of his thumb along her calf, above the top of her boot. "You do what you think is best," he says, forcing himself to pull back. "I trust you. And thank you."

"For years, she and Dermott were all I had. You know I'd do anything for them. Here." She raises her hand and touches his throat, gentle and sure. The pain doesn't cease, but it eases greatly. He sighs in relief. "I'll take her with me for now and risk her anger in the morning. She'll come back when she's ready."

He nods. He doesn't want her so far away, but Keely can protect her. He won't have time to rest tonight, anyway, monitoring his ship through the storm. He's spent more time than he should down here with her already, instead of with his crew. Doubar won't be happy, but hopefully, at least this time, he'll understand. "Take care of her, then."

"You know we will." Keely slips her hand into Maeve's and reaches for the opal bracelet. It lights green with her magic, and a moment later they disappear.

* * *

_A/N: Tasting the mouth or the vomit of someone thought to be poisoned actually was an accepted method doctors used, in some cases up until the 20th century, it's not just me being dramatic. Thank goodness for modern medicine!_


	19. Chapter 19

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

The storm wanes with the night, and an hour after dawn Sinbad feels the sea has calmed enough to return to shore with the longboat. He hasn't slept and neither have his men, all hands working diligently to monitor and maintain the ship, keeping her afloat during the night. Fury buoys him, stalling any hint of weariness. This storm feels natural, not conjured, despite its timing, and he doubts it was sent purposely to harm them. The attack on Maeve is another story. No one harms a member of his crew. _No one_. He's about to show the innkeeper the consequences of that very foolish action.

All night long as they battled the storm Sinbad stayed alert for any sign from Breakwater or Maeve herself, but none came. He waits for news, unable to check on her himself. What exactly Keely did to cure Maeve last night he doesn't know, or how long it will take her to recover. He does his best to remain patient, to keep his mind focused on his work. His sorceress is in the safest place she can possibly be, and though it feels unnatural not to have her at his side he takes peace from the knowledge that, for now, she's protected. The magical shields that safeguard Breakwater shelter her from scrying, and Keely and Antoine won't let her come to harm.

Sinbad himself feels nearly recovered from his taste of poison and desperate trip north last night. His bracelet probably saved Maeve's life and the life of their child, so he can't regret it, but he never wants to travel like that again. He also has much more respect for Maeve's magic, her ability to wield the power stored in that stone. It takes far more skill than he realized to get them to and from Breakwater safely. He feels slightly queasy and his throat still hurts from the poison, but nothing like it did last night. He hopes Keely was able to dull Maeve's pain similarly.

"What's the plan, little brother?" Doubar asks as they splash into the surf, hauling the longboat to shore. He hasn't asked about Maeve's health or her whereabouts, which is fine with Sinbad. He doesn't know how to explain, what to say. Firouz and Rongar both caught glimpses of Keely last night, so Maeve's going to have to deal with questions when she returns. Rongar usually knows better than to pry, but Firouz does not. Until Maeve says otherwise, Sinbad isn't going to offer any explanations. These are her people, and while he doesn't agree that they need to be kept so secret from the rest of the crew, it's not his choice to make. It's hers. As her captain he has the right to ask many things of her, but not this.

"The plan is simple. Find the man. Demand answers." Sinbad draws his saber and stalks swiftly toward the town. Nobody touches a member of his crew. Especially Maeve. Particularly while she's with child. That innkeeper is going to explain his actions. He's going to apologize. And he's going to die. It's as simple as that.

"Ah, maybe you should let me ask the questions," Firouz says hesitantly as they climb the gentle hill through scrub pine.

Sinbad glares at his best friend. "I'm not in the mood for tact." He's just spent a night without his sorceress, worried sick for her despite knowing she's in good hands. In his mind's eye he can still see her poor body writhing, convulsing on the bottom of the longboat, her beautiful lips blistered and wet with blood. The man responsible for that will die.

"It's just that...well, you want answers. Right?" Firouz hustles, jogging to keep up with Sinbad's forceful strides. Rongar's long legs keep him steady on Sinbad's other side; Doubar puffs behind them. "The point of a sword may not be the best way to get them."

"I think it's an excellent way." Normally Sinbad abhors killing. He's not a violent man, though he leads a rough life. But anyone who touches Maeve dies. That's all.

When they reached the village yesterday they were greeted by the scents of cooking fires, the sights and sounds of busy working people. Now, as he pauses at the edge of the main street to let Doubar catch up, Sinbad instantly feels the difference. Eerie quiet pervades the town. He frowns, and when Doubar pants a question he raises a hand for silence. Something's wrong.

"Where is everyone?" Firouz whispers.

Sinbad glances at Rongar, who has better hearing than the rest of them. The Moor shakes his head.

"Careful. The last thing we need is to walk into a trap." Sinbad lets instinct guide his feet. He turns not for the door of the inn but the back of it, behind the ragged row of buildings. He moves on cautious, silent feet, his men at his back. He sees nothing unusual at first—a small outbuilding with the sour, warm smell of a working brewery, a chopping block and stacks of neatly-split wood, chickens pecking at the dirt. He frowns. The little hairs on the back of his neck tell him there's danger here, though he can't yet see it. He steps carefully forward.

The back door of the inn sits open. The innkeeper lies sprawled in the doorway, his skin grey and waxen. Open eyes stare blankly at nothing. Sinbad takes a silent breath. He doesn't need Firouz to tell him the man's dead.

Firouz darts forward when he sees the body in the doorway. Sinbad grabs the scruff of his shirt and holds him back. "Don't."

"What if he's still alive?"

"He's not." Sinbad's jaw clenches hard. He's not sure what to feel. He has no sympathy for the dead man, but he wanted answers and now he'll never get them.

"What got him?" Doubar asks quietly. "He seemed like a nice enough guy."

"Until he poisoned a member of my crew."

"Well, there's that."

Sinbad releases his hold on Firouz. The inventor looks at him over his shoulder. "We can't just leave him there."

"Why not?"

"What if he has a family? What if they found him like that?"

Sinbad's still reeling from nearly losing his own family, and he finds it very difficult to care. But he nods at Firouz. "Go ahead, then. See if you can find out what killed him, at least."

Firouz starts forward once more.

"Stop!"

The female voice sounds before the figure appears. Sinbad isn't sure whether he's surprised or not when Keely emerges from out of thin air, the faintest hint of green mist dissolving around her. She grabs Firouz by the arm and hauls him back.

"That thing's got a curse on it. You touch it, you die."

Firouz rubs his arm where she grabbed him. Sinbad opens his mouth to ask how she knows, but a figure garbed exquisitely in dark yellow silk steps into the doorway.

"Who's this little witch, come to spoil my fun?" Rumina pauses, unable to move forward with the bulky corpse of the innkeeper lying in the way.

Rumina's a small woman, though the crackling, humming aura of her evil magic surrounds her, making her seem bigger than she actually is. Keely's physically even smaller, but she squares her sharp little self with the witch, folding her arms across her chest. She's dressed in short men's breeches, as seems to be her habit, unarmed and defiant as she stands before the beautiful, silken witch. "You don't remember me," she says, indignant.

"She didn't remember Maeve, either," Sinbad says, edging up on Keely's side, shouldering Firouz gently behind him. Between two angry magicians is no place for a scientist.

Keely's lip curls with disdain. "That's just plain rude. Or a lie. How anyone could forget Maeve, I don't know."

Sinbad assumes it has something to do with the passage of time. Maeve was a child when Rumina cursed Dermott, twelve or thirteen at the most. She's not the gawky child Dermott showed him in his vision anymore.

"Was it you, then?" Keely demands. "Or your lackey? How many sailors did you mean to kill?"

"Oh, he did it. Happily, I might add. Money talks." The witch toes the corpse and sniffs with scorn as she eyes Keely up and down.

Sinbad tightens his grip on his saber. He doesn't feel sorry for the dead man anymore. Not if he was willing to poison innocent strangers for coin. "If you meant to kill us all, you miscalculated."

"Miscalculated? Me?" Rumina sounds insulted. "That was a warning, sailor. Nothing more." She glances around. "Where _is_ your barbarian peasant today?"

"Safe. And alive." Sinbad hopes, at least. He has no idea why Keely showed up, especially without Maeve, and all he can do is pray that she doesn't bring bad news.

"Come out here and talk like an honest person," Doubar demands.

Rumina glances at the corpse at her feet. "Can't, I'm afraid. The door's a bit blocked." She smiles. It's the smile of a snake. "What honest men skulk around the back of inns, anyway?"

"I knew better than to walk through the front door," Sinbad growls.

"Pity you didn't know that yesterday." The witch trains her pale eyes on him. She's a beautiful woman, Sinbad has to admit. Nearly black hair, glossy and rich, delicate features that any high-born princess would envy. She's dressed in fine yellow silk, her face heavily made-up, the picture of wealth and power. Next to her Keely's small and grubby, barefoot as a beggar. He has no doubt they're both aware of this, and he also has no doubt that Keely doesn't give a shit. "Let me be very clear this time, Sinbad. It seems that our last chat didn't have enough of an impact. I hope I have your attention now."

He's really not interested in hearing whatever she has to say, but he stands his ground. Attacking her won't get him anywhere, though he desperately wants to. He'd be dead before he reached her.

"I've warned you about that peasant witch before. She's in my way. Things in my way have a habit of disappearing." She snaps her fingers and the corpse at her feet vanishes. Her blood-red nails gleam in the morning sunlight as she steps through the doorway.

"You didn't succeed. I told you, she's alive."

Rumina smiles, venom-sweet. "And I told you, that was just a warning."

"Aconite is not a warning!" Firouz fumes from behind Sinbad's right shoulder. "It's a death sentence, and a torturous one. How could you—even you?"

The witch glances at him. Her quick, keen gaze evaluates and dismisses him in less than a heartbeat before she turns back to Sinbad. "You did this to her. Not me. I warned you. Anything that happens to her now is on your shoulders."

And the terrible thing is that she's right. She did warn him. She wants him, and she's not used to being denied. Guilt gathers in his gut, heavy and dense, worsening the faint queasiness he's felt since leaving Maeve's side.

"You touch her again, you die." He points his saber at Rumina. Words don't seem to work so well with her, but maybe a blade will.

She laughs. "But I didn't touch her at all." Her frosty eyes narrow. "That's the fun part. You see, sailor, until you listen to me, until you get rid of her, you won't be able to rest. Everyone you meet will be suspect—like him." She nods at the inn. "I can pay or curse anyone to do my bidding. I can _become_ anyone, just as I became you." Her pretty mouth curves, sharp and cruel as a blade. "I gave your soul to Scratch until you realize you belong to me. I am your only way out of his clutches, and I won't be denied!"

"Is that what this is about?" Doubar grunts. "You're wasting your time preying on Maeve. She refused to help Sinbad."

"Oh, I know she did. My sailor's a young, virile man. She'd be with child already, had she agreed. But he's sweet on her—always has been. And that just won't do." She steps forward. Sinbad braces his feet and forces himself not to step back. She wants him. She won't hurt him unless he attacks first.

Probably.

"I admit, the girl has a...primitive sort of charm. If you like savages." She glances meaningfully at Keely. Maeve's sister is older than Rumina and a mother of two besides, but she makes a horrible face and sticks her tongue out at the witch.

Rumina wrinkles her dainty, aristocratic nose. "As I said." She clears her throat. "But you're mine, Sinbad. You always have been. You always will be." He can hear the threat implicit in her tone.

"Please." Keely rolls her eyes. "You're trying to scare a man who doesn't scare."

"Well said!" Doubar agrees heartily.

"And what you say about Sinbad applies just as easily to you." Keely grins, and a cold gleam Sinbad's never seen before enters her green eyes. Antoine told him the girls can be vindictive, but he hasn't seen it for himself until now. "You're wasting your time worrying about Maeve when she already refused to help Sinbad. Really, she's the least of your worries. All of us—all the women in the world—are potentially your enemies. You realize that, right? You can't watch him all the time. For all you know he could have multiple babies brewing already, in every port between here and Baghdad. Hell, I could be carrying one." She smiles, as coldly venomous as her rival. "Go on. Test me. I dare you."

Sinbad holds his breath. This is a very dangerous game she's playing. There must be safer ways to keep Rumina's attention off Maeve, ones that don't put Keely's unborn child at risk. He thinks of Antoine, how much that man adores his daughters, and what it will do to him if Keely or her baby come to harm.

"Don't," he hisses, saber in one hand, thrusting the other out to the side, to stop Keely getting any closer to Rumina.

Rumina's eyes light with cold fury. Sinbad's stomach drops. Without meaning to, he just all but confirmed Keely's lie.

Rongar pushes in front of Keely, placing his bulky form between the two women, but Keely shoulders her way forward again. "It's fine," she says, speaking to Rongar but staring at Rumina, her eyes nearly glowing green. "I told her to."

She dared Rumina, actually, and Rumina is angry and envious enough to rise to the bait. Rongar looks to his captain, but Sinbad doesn't know what to tell him, what to do. Rumina is a bully and bullies at heart are insecure. Keely aimed for and hit that insecurity, like punching a bruise, but in doing so she may have woken a tiger. Rumina's chin lowers, her eyes never leaving the woman before her.

"Go ahead," Keely goads. "Try me. You already know what you'll find."

Rumina inhales slowly. She pauses for just a moment, then begins to recite something in a language Sinbad doesn't understand. It raises the tiny hairs on the back of his neck and arms, warning him to beware. He can feel the sparks of magic gather, and he watches as Rumina's dark blue magic reaches for Keely. He wants to stop it—nothing Rumina does can be good, and this is Maeve's adopted sister, possibly the person she loves most in the world besides Dermott. She will never forgive him if Keely comes to harm. But Keely stands her ground, small but defiantly unafraid, and if she's not scared he doesn't quite dare interrupt.

The magic wraps around Keely like a dark blue mist. Whatever response it gives Rumina is lost on the rest of them, but the witch roars with bestial, impotent fury.

"Told you." Keely brushes the dark magic away as easily as if it were a dusting of snow. "Maeve is too young for Sinbad, and even if she wasn't, she doesn't want kids. But sure, you keep worrying about her. It makes my job much easier."

Rumina lunges.

Sinbad and Rongar both move at the same time to step between the two women. He raises his saber, though what a blade will do against a magical attack he doesn't know.

Rumina's pulsing blue lightning bolt bursts as it hits a sudden wall of green. Sinbad ducks instinctively but even the shower of sparks from the collision doesn't hit him.

Keely smiles grimly. "You really have forgotten. I'm not a warrior. I can't attack you—that's Maeve's thing. But I can damn well keep you from hurting anyone."

Sinbad stands cautiously, Rongar beside him.

Rumina looks furious, but there's nothing she can do. She smooths her glossy hair back and glares at them all. "This isn't the end. You can't get rid of me that easily." Her icy stare lingers on Keely, then Sinbad. "He's mine. The end will be the same no matter what you do." Her hands rise in front of her in a complicated gesture and she disappears.

Behind Sinbad, Doubar sighs with relief.

"Everyone okay?" Sinbad is cautious, and slow to sheath his sword. He can't sense the ominous, dangerous presence lurking in the air anymore, which tells him Rumina is truly gone. But Antoine was right—she's been watching them, just as they feared. He exhales a long breath, feeling a strange feathery weakness in his knees. Is that fear? He doesn't know that he's ever truly been afraid of Rumina before, but somehow having confirmation that she's been spying on him, watching him when he thinks he's alone…. An icy blade of anxiety touches the back of his neck. Not for himself. For Maeve. For the spark of life she bears. At least Rumina seems convinced that Maeve isn't going to be his champion against Scratch. He's thankful for that small mercy.

"I'm surprised she just…left," Firouz says, frowning. "I expected something more."

"She's met my magic before, though she says she doesn't remember." Keely rolls her eyes with disgust. "I can't attack her, but I can block just about anything she tries. She may have decided it wasn't worth it today."

"You were wonderful." Doubar beams at her. "And you have excellent timing. But...who are you?"

Keely glances sideways at Sinbad, who has no idea what to say. She's Maeve's family, Maeve's secret. It's not his place to divulge what he knows.

After a beat, when it's clear Sinbad isn't going to answer, Keely does. "I'm just a librarian, so don't get too excited." She pushes her green forelock out of her eyes. "And I come with...not the greatest news."

Sinbad's stomach drops into his boots and the strange feathery feeling in his knees threatens to bring him down. "Maeve?"

"On your ship." Keely waves dismissively in the direction of the beach. "She's fine, and she'll be fully recovered in a day or two. I wanted to keep her longer, but she wouldn't let me."

Relief floods him. She's okay. She's going to be fine. She's safe on his ship, exactly where she belongs. He scowls at her friend. "Don't scare me like that."

She turns to him, irritated. "I came to warn you, captain. A courtesy. She'll be fine, but she's _pissed_."

Doubar groans. "When is she ever not?" He lowers himself to sit heavily on the chopping block.

Sinbad doesn't care how angry she is. He's just grateful she's strong enough to lose her temper.

"Who's she angry at? The innkeeper?" Firouz looks around the silent clearing. "Unfortunately, it seems she won't get the opportunity to confront him."

"Probably she is." Keely shrugs. "Right now she's mad at basically the world. Mostly me and Sinbad." She makes a face. "Me more than Sinbad."

Firouz frowns. "Didn't you just save her life?"

"Oh, aye. But then I moved her without her permission, and Sinbad let me. She really doesn't like that."

Yeah, he was afraid of that, but he was more concerned last night with her health. Keely said she needed a good night's sleep, which no one on a ship in a storm ever gets. He doesn't regret sending her to Breakwater, where Keely could keep an eye on her. It was just one night. Now she's back on the Nomad, where she belongs. He yearns to be there, too.

"Will someone please explain to me what's going on?" Doubar demands irritably. "Who is this? Why is she here?" His blue-gray eyes fix on Keely. "Are you really pregnant?"

She snorts. "Word to the wise—women really don't like being asked that. And would Rumina have been so pissed off if I wasn't? Use your head."

Doubar was on his way to liking Keely, but Sinbad watches as his brother's defenses come up. He doesn't like being told to think before he speaks. "No wonder you know Maeve," he grumbles. "You have the same mouth."

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Keely turns to Sinbad. "I came to warn you about the angry redhead waiting for you. That's all. And it's a good thing I did. You nearly lost your skeptic." She pats Firouz on the shoulder.

"And I appreciate the timely warning about the, uh, body." Firouz dips his head to her. "But I must admit I don't strictly follow the philosophy of classical Skepticism. I find it too restrictive."

"I find most philosophies too restrictive."

"But...you said you're a scholar?" Firouz looks at her doubtfully. "From Brí Leith, perhaps?"

Green eyes blaze with sudden, unexpected fire. "What do you know about Brí Leith?" she demands, rounding on him.

Firouz backs away three quick paces, hands up, empty palms facing her. "Nothing! Nothing. Only that it burned."

"Then you just answered your own question, didn't you?"

This isn't going well, but Sinbad doesn't know what else he expected. Keely's pricklier than Maeve even on a good day, which this is not. She likely spent the night awake, watching over Maeve, and just tussled with Rumina. She's also pregnant, which he's been warned fouls her mood. Now she's upset both Doubar and Firouz, and Rongar's watching her warily, as if he's afraid she might come after him next.

She doesn't. She comes after Sinbad instead. "Look, we've got to have a serious talk about Maeve's safety. This can't continue. Rumina wasn't joking. How can you trust anyone you meet? That the food you buy is safe? The wine you drink?"

He knows. He knows. But he hasn't had time to think through Rumina's threats or decide what to do about them, and he doesn't want to have this discussion right now. "Was her wine poisoned, too? Is that why she didn't drink it?"

Keely's unnatural green eyes narrow at him. Oh, he knows that look. Keely may be small and plain, not tall and regally beautiful, but that look is all Maeve. He's seen it many times, and it doesn't bode well. "I didn't ask, and that's not the point. Stop trying to change the subject. You're not good at misdirection." She folds her arms over her chest and faces him head-on, as she faced Rumina, just as adamant and just as fearless. "Rumina is not going to stop. She warned you. She's not good at misdirection, either, and she doesn't need to be. She told you very clearly that Maeve is not safe with you."

Guilt wells inside him—guilt and a host of other emotions, too overwhelming and too frightening to name. This is his fault—all of it. Since learning the truth of the brand he bears and what he must do to erase it, his sole preoccupation has been with the woman who agreed to champion him, to save him from Scratch's clutches. His driving ambition is to keep her safe—from Scratch, from Rumina, from Doubar, even from himself. And yet, he feels like every choice he makes, every step he takes, only worsens her situation. Her relationship with Doubar is all but destroyed. Rumina has threatened her life multiple times. This last was just a warning, the evil sorceress said, but Sinbad is pretty sure Maeve would have died without Keely. Even Firouz didn't seem to hold much hope last night.

"I know what she means to you. Hell, I probably know better than you do. Men aren't great with emotions." Keely leans her weight on one hip, as she does when holding a baby.

"She means everything," he says tightly. Denying it anymore is pointless. Rumina knows, which means Scratch probably does, too. He can deal with that, as long as they keep believing Maeve isn't with child.

Doubar makes a low, annoyed sound. Firouz looks shocked. Rongar does not.

"If that's true, then can you tell me you have a plan for protecting her? Something better than before?" Keely frowns at him. "That girl attracts trouble like...like I don't even know what. Like bees to pollen, flies to rot. If you don't have a plan, she needs to come back to Breakwater until after Samhain."

Oh, no. No. His blood turns to ice in his veins, sharp and chilling, knives of cold fire. Last night was one thing. She needed rest, and she wasn't going to get it on the sea in the middle of a storm. But he can't be without her for moons—he _can't_. She's part of him. How is he supposed to function if he's not whole, if she's not with him?

"No." His voice sounds strange in his ears, leaden and flat. "No."

"Think, little brother," Doubar says. "Maybe it's for the best. She's a hindrance to you right now anyway, while you're working on the protocol." He glances at Keely. "Though maybe not as much of a hindrance as I thought."

Sinbad clenches his jaw as tight as he can to keep from shouting at his brother. Keely's child is not his, and he feels vastly uncomfortable that anyone thinks it might be. This is Maeve's sister, and he feels absolutely no desire for her. But she fostered the lie deliberately to help keep Maeve safe, and he can't jeopardize that safety with the truth no matter how much he wants to.

But he can't let Maeve go, either. He can't.

"You tried to talk to her last night, didn't you?" he says, staring at Keely. "She wouldn't agree to stay up north. That's why you came to me."

"This morning, not last night. But yes." She's unrepentant. "You're her captain. She won't listen to me, but she'll listen to you."

Will she? He's honestly doubtful. And even if she did, what would it do to her if he forced her to leave? What would it do to them both? "She doesn't want to leave the Nomad. She's already said so plenty of times." His voice still sounds strange. He clears his throat—maybe it's a side effect of the poison? The morning isn't cold, but he feels like he's turned to ice. "If she's furious about going away for a night, what do you think she'll do if I send her away for half a year?"

"I don't know...live, maybe?" Keely's sarcasm bites deep, but its bitter sting can't compare with the surreal thought of living without her. He'd die. Not literally—not physically. His heart would still beat, lungs would still breathe. But something essential inside him would die. He can't do it. Living a lie with her, pretending she's his crewmember and nothing more, feels like torture but at least he can see her. Hear her voice. He can hold her tight in the darkest hours of the night. He can't give that up.

"Maeve won't listen to me if I order her," he says, taking a different tack. He rubs his hands together, trying to warm the strange chill that's come over him. Firouz frowns as he watches. "I may be captain, but she doesn't obey when she doesn't want to."

"That's true enough," Doubar mutters. Sinbad wants to snap at him, but he controls himself. Getting Doubar angry at him won't help the situation.

"If you want Maeve to come north with you, you need to talk to her. Not me." Sinbad feels guilty for deflecting responsibility, but he also fully believes what he says. Keely and Antoine have both previously suggested Maeve would be safer at Breakwater, and she's refused to go. She wants to stay with him, with their family on the Nomad. Warmth blooms in him, momentarily banishing the ice in his belly. She loves him, wants him, as much as he loves her.

"I told you, she's furious!" Keely snaps. "She won't talk to me. This is all your goddamn fault, so you need to fix it!"

He shakes his head firmly. He may not be the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to women, but he knows Maeve and he knows better than to stick his nose in the middle of this fight. "I can't fix this. I'm sorry." He would if he could. Maeve has already lost Dermott and Doubar. The last thing she needs is a rift with her sister, too. But if he tries to force her away, he's terrified that he'll lose her. If she chooses to go to Breakwater, as Keely suggests, he won't fight her. Keely's right—it would be safer. And easier. But he won't force her. As her captain he probably should, but as her _céile_ he just can't. That betrayal would be unforgivable in Maeve's eyes, and he can't lose her like that.

Keely's green eyes gleam dangerously. "Are you being deliberately dense, or are you really as stupid as you sound? You can't protect her! We can!"

"Who's we?" Firouz asks. Nobody listens.

"I can protect her!" Sinbad's hands curl into fists at his sides. He struggles not to lose his temper. He's the captain, and he's sick of everyone arguing with him at every turn. Maeve gets away with it because she's Maeve. Doubar, Keely, Rumina, and everyone else need to check themselves.

"You're doing a piss-poor job of it!" Keely hollers back.

Sinbad forces himself to take a slow, deep breath. Then another. Keely and Maeve fight, he reminds himself. He's heard them go at each other like screeching banshees with his own ears. They'll get over it eventually; they always do. His job is to keep out of it, and not to rise to Keely's bait. All she wants is Maeve's safety, which is his foremost worry, too. They just disagree about how best to ensure it.

"Your argument is with Maeve," he says, gratified when his tone remains even, "not with me. I'm telling you the same thing I've told Doubar—I will not force her to do anything. I didn't force her to help me with the Protocol, and I won't force her to leave, either. Or to stay." He wants her to stay. He needs her to stay. But he won't force her. That's not who he is, and she won't stand for it, besides.

"Man. Up," Keely growls. "You're the reason she's in danger!"

He knows. Maeve has always been Rumina's enemy, but he's made her a bigger target. "Being a man," he says slowly, "a real man, isn't about rushing in to fix every problem. It's about knowing when you're needed. And when to butt out." Antoine taught him that. He suspects Dim-Dim tried, too, but he wasn't yet ready to hear it.

"Fuck your goddamn philosophy! I refuse to lose my sister to Rumina just because you want your bed warmed at night!"

If Doubar or Firouz said that to him, he'd punch them. As it is, he struggles to keep his arms at his sides. He's not known for losing his temper, and he refuses to let Keely goad him into it. She wants to fight, but he's not willing to oblige her. "Maeve has her own bed, her own cabin, which you know perfectly well. Yelling at me won't change her mind about leaving."

"Well, yelling at her does nothing!"

"Then you need to try a different approach."

His refusal to engage, to scream and roar and let her vent her frustration, makes Keely even angrier. But he's not a Celt, nor does he have the sort of temperament that will be soothed by a shouting match. If he let Doubar and Keely at each other they might just come out the other side feeling better, but right now they seem to be in general agreement so that won't work. Besides, Keely goes further than Maeve ever would with her vicious digs. He doesn't quite trust that Doubar wouldn't snap and squash her angry little self like a bug. Maeve wouldn't like that.

"I need to try a different approach?" Keely stares at him, beyond insulted. "I've known that girl since she was eight years old, and _I'm_ the one who needs to try a different approach?"

Sinbad's suddenly very glad that Maeve's the warrior, Keely the healer. If this one could throw fireballs, he'd be ashes right now.

"Fine. You know what? Fine. _Don't_ listen. But don't come running north next time you need someone to save your sorry asses." She fumbles with the neckline of her shirt, withdrawing an opal on a fine gold chain. It lights green with her magic, and she disappears.

Doubar whistles low. "Had to have the last word. Of course she knows Maeve."

"That," Sinbad says, full of misgiving, "is Maeve's adopted sister."

Doubar snorts. "Figures." He climbs slowly to his feet. "No offense to you, little brother. Your choices right now are limited, I know. But I prefer Talia."

Sinbad rubs his eyes. Samhain can't come soon enough. This is getting ridiculously out of hand.

"Is...ah, is she really with child?" Firouz asks hesitantly.

Rongar shoves him and shakes his head firmly, then cups his hand to his ear as if listening.

"Rongar's right," Sinbad says as they slowly start back toward the beach. "The less said, the better." If he could knight Rongar, he'd do it in a heartbeat.

* * *

_A/N: A couple of people have asked about Doubar. No spoilers, but yes, it's going to get worse, and yes, I do promise it will all come out right in the end! I find characters more interesting when they sometimes make mistakes, because nobody's perfect. And there's more at stake when good people are at odds, as opposed to just pure "evil" villains. I have stories that explore various characters as the "bad" guys, even Dim-Dim (that one will never be posted, it's too dark). But I don't do unhappy endings, I promise!_


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: I posted the lastof my 1990's-era fics on my old account, since part of it was there already. It's complete now, titled Vital Stars under the username Cris. Take care of yourselves as the world opens up again!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve is on the Nomad when they return, just as Keely promised. She's pale even for a Celt, her sweet lips blistered and raw, dark circles under her eyes, but she's standing. She's alive. Sinbad aches to touch her. It's all he can do to stop himself; he busies his hands with the longboat to keep from pulling her against his chest and holding on tight. She's furious, he can see that for himself without Keely's warning. Honestly, he doesn't care how angry she is—she's alive. That's really all that matters. She can scream and rail at him if she wants, berate him for letting Keely whisk her away. He'll take it. He'll gladly endure her ire, because it means she's strong enough to stand there and throw it.

The strange chill he's felt all morning eases as he helps haul the longboat up to the deck. He watches the flames of her soft hair curl and twist in the warm Mediterranean wind, the ice in his veins slowly thawing as he works, her nearby presence a sweet, steady buoy to his nerves. She's wrapped in her brown woolen cloak and he wonders if she feels cold, too. Maybe it's a lingering side effect of the poison? He'll have to ask Firouz.

Firouz is the first to approach her, peering with suspicion at the mug cupped in her hands. "Should you be up? What's that you have?"

"I'm fine." She may be angry at Keely and Sinbad, but she's not mad at Firouz. She lets him take the cup and inspect its contents, sniffing and then tasting. "It's just broth. They sent me back with two big jugs of it."

Dark eyes narrow at Sinbad. Yeah, she's pissed that he let Keely take her. He helps Doubar lift the longboat back into place, unrepentant. She needed a good night's sleep, and needed to be under the watchful eye of a healer. Firouz already stated that he could do nothing else for her, and no one on the Nomad got any sleep last night, so Sinbad doesn't feel sorry for his choice. It was the right one, no matter how angry she is. He's not even sure exactly why she's upset. Keely said she doesn't like being moved without her consent, but what did she expect? She needed her sister.

"An excellent idea." Firouz hands her mug back. "You need to replenish the fluids you lost. How are you feeling?"

She shrugs. She probably feels fairly awful, but she'll never admit it. "I'll live." Her poor raw lips curve, the shadow of a wan smile painting her mouth. "Thanks to you and Rongar."

The inventor waves away her gratitude. "It's my pleasure. I really didn't do very much. You still might have died without magic."

Maeve's smile dies. "No. I'm tough. Tougher than _some people_ think." Sinbad can feel the heat of her angry gaze on his back as he works. "But I probably wouldn't be standing right now," she acknowledges. It's a concession he doesn't expect, considering her anger at both him and Keely.

"Certainly not!" Firouz shakes his head vigorously. "I gave you medicinal charcoal, which works by...essentially soaking up the poison. Isolating it, so it can pass harmlessly. I tried to give you water, too, to flush the poison from your system, but you were non-responsive by that point. I'm wary of magical healing in general—there are too many quacks with no skill and less knowledge preying on believers. But without it, you would have faced a long and difficult recovery. If you recovered at all." Firouz's expression darkens.

"Well, I'm grateful to you all the same. And Rongar." She finds the Moor's eyes and inclines her head to him in thanks.

"Did you go to that library? Your sister said she was a librarian. Is that why you have access to it?" Firouz scratches his nose. "I'm still a little vague on what happened yesterday. Sinbad said he couldn't use your bracelet, but then suddenly your sister was here."

The soft expression on Maeve's tired face disappears as her impassive mask slams into place. Her raw lips tighten painfully. "Who said I had a sister?"

"Ah...Sinbad?" Firouz squints in confusion and blinks several times. He can tell he's made a mistake, but not what it was. He looks to his captain in appeal.

Sinbad braces himself. He has no idea how she'll react to news of their morning. "We went to ask the innkeeper some questions. Keely showed up to tell us you were safely back home." He stresses the final word. The Nomad is her home, its crew her family. Sending her to Breakwater for a night of healing doesn't change that. If that's what she's afraid of, she's worried for nothing.

What she thinks of her sister's appearance, Sinbad can't tell. She's hiding from him again, masking what she feels behind a stoic exterior. If he puts his hands on her skin he can break through, but he doesn't quite dare. Rumina could be watching and even if she isn't, Maeve might just be angry enough to slap him for touching her.

But, no matter what she thinks about Keely, she can't hide her curiosity about the man who poisoned her. "Did he tell you why he did it?" Her dark eyes search his. She's angry, but curiosity wins out over pique.

"We found him dead. I'm sorry, _mo chailín_." Sinbad takes two strides toward her. She looks so tired. He wants that lovely body in his arms, wants to cup her delicate cheek in his hand and urge her to rest against his shoulder. "Rumina bribed him to do it." He forces himself to stop moving. Rumina may be watching. Scratch may be watching. He has to keep his distance.

"I wonder how much she gave him?" Doubar scratches his beard lightly.

"Does it matter? He never got to use it," Firouz says.

"True enough. He got the bad end of that deal." Doubar finishes securing the longboat in place.

"So does everyone who deals with Rumina. She never plays fair." Sinbad rubs the brand on his chest. He wonders whether Scratch knows she means to betray him. Surely he must? He's a demon, and she's only human. He's stronger than her, isn't he? But they've had no sign from the demon yet, one way or another—no clue as to his thoughts on the matter. What is he waiting for?

Maeve frowns. Her cloak hides her from view, obscuring everything but her tired face, her pale hands gripping her mug tightly. "How do you know it was Rumina?"

"She told us. She was there, waiting."

Sinbad studies Maeve. Her mask slips slightly—just a little. Just enough. He can see the anger in her, the disquiet she struggles to hide behind a stoic exterior. She's practiced this trick, but it doesn't come naturally to her. She's a passionate thing, her body the paper, her emotions the ink drawn across it. Somewhere, at some time, she learned to conceal her feelings, but it's an imperfect art, not a science, and right now he can see through the facade. She's glad to have an answer for why she was so ruthlessly poisoned, but the knowledge doesn't bring closure. He can read her discomfort in the pace of her soft breaths, the slant of her tense jaw, though her brown eyes shy from him, refusing to make contact, to give him that easy path inside her. She's frustrated and hurting, both physically and emotionally. He is, too. He's still furious that someone tried to kill her, tried to take her away from him, and furious at his own inability to stop it. Maeve's the toughest woman he knows—tougher than Talia, tougher than the female Adventurers—but she can't fistfight her way out of an overdose of poison. No one can. Without Rongar's quick feet, Firouz's medicine, and Keely's magic, she would have died. The child she bears would have died. He's desperately angry, but has nowhere to put that anger.

"Drink your broth," he says, his voice rough and uneven. He fully expects an angry answer to his request, but he can't stop himself from making it. If Keely gave it to her, that means she needs it. She probably shouldn't even be up, but that's a fight he knows he won't win so he doesn't bother trying.

To his surprise, she doesn't snap at him. "You should have some, too," she says, her impassive mask slipping just a little more. "Keely said you were affected."

"Just a little. Nothing like you." He might not have felt it at all, except that desperate trip to Breakwater made him sick, and Keel said the poison was worse coming up than it was going down. He'll remember that slight, metallic bitterness he tasted in her water, and be on the lookout for it from now on, though it's unlikely Rumina will try the same thing twice. "Do you remember much from yesterday?"

She shudders lightly. "Enough."

He doubts she remembers Firouz dosing her, or his own reckless use of her bracelet, but she clearly remembers the pain. He wishes he could ease those memories, could stop whatever pain she might still feel now. He closes the distance between them and places his hand at the bottom of her mug, pressing upward gently. "Drink."

She does. Maybe she's too tired to argue over something so small right now. He lets a curl of bright red hair wrap around his finger, softer than silk and warm from the sun. Her dark eyes watch him over the rim of her cup, speaking a warning anyone could read. He gathers his willpower and steps away.

"We have a tide to catch." The last thing he wants is to make her a bigger target than she already is. Continuing to keep away from her in the light is best. Rumina may know that he wants her, but for now she believes Maeve doesn't return his affection—or at least that she refuses to give him the child he needs to save his soul from Scratch. Keely gave Rumina more to think about, more to worry about, which he's grateful for, but she hasn't absolved them of the need for secrecy.

Doubar frowns. "Is the plan still the same, little brother?" His voice is laced with uncertainty. "That innkeeper's the one who told us Talia's been sighted to the north. What if he was lying?"

"I don't think he had any reason to lie," Sinbad says. "But Lefka would be the next logical stop, regardless. It's more populated, which means Rumina will have more trouble guessing our movements and who we might speak to. She can't bribe or enspell a whole city."

"Can't she?" Doubar says doubtfully. "Remember the City of Mist?"

"Those weren't real people. They were shadows. Reflections." Maeve's voice is hoarse. She clears her throat and sips her broth before Sinbad can nag her to do so.

He watches her drink, grateful that Keely sent her home with plenty of healing broth despite their spat. He hasn't decided what to do about Rumina's threat, but despite what Keely might think he takes it very seriously. How is he supposed to keep his crew fed, keep Maeve fed, when there's a very real possibility every bit of food they buy, every drop of water, could be tainted? They have enough on board to see them safely to the other side of the island, but after that they'll need to resupply.

They could forego buying food at all, instead keeping to uninhabited islands where they can gather fresh provisions for free. He, Doubar, and Firouz know enough between them to make this a possibility. But he can't guarantee that fruits and vegetables will be in season, game stocks plentiful enough to keep his crew fed reliably until Samhain. Ordinarily he'd be willing to take that risk, but not with Maeve. Not when she's with child. He can't guarantee what wild foods they'll find, and he can't gamble with her health, their child's health. Three souls hang in the balance. He could have someone taste everything before she eats, but he's not sure that will do any good. Rumina won't hesitate to poison his whole crew if they're in her way. He's not entirely sure she wouldn't poison _him_, even. She's willing to let Scratch take his soul if he doesn't agree to be hers, after all.

He needs time to think this problem through. There has to be a solution, something other than forcing Maeve to leave the Nomad. She doesn't want to go, and he doesn't want to make her. Not unless there's truly no other option. He's afraid of what it will do to them, to the bond they share. He's her captain and as such it's his right to order her away against her wishes, but as her _céile_ such an act would be unforgivable. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Dim-Dim's wisdom to guide him. His mentor would know exactly what to do, and if the only answer is, in fact, parting for a time, he'd find a way to convince her that wouldn't cost Sinbad her love.

"I don't like the thought of Rumina always watching us," Doubar grumbles, gazing around him as if the evil sorceress might appear out of thin air. "It creeps me out."

"Join the club." Now his brother knows how he feels. Sinbad wants the witch dead. She's fucked with him and threatened Maeve's life too many times. This is beyond personal now.

Doubar squints in Maeve's direction. "I get that she thought you could be carrying Sinbad's son. You should be. But she's been after you longer than this. What's her problem with you, anyway?"

Not this again. Sinbad wants to scream. He spent the night easing the Nomad through a storm instead of sleeping with his sorceress in his arms, and he's tired and grouchy. All he wants is to set sail, to put this village behind them and start up the coast toward Lefka. "Knock it off," he says, grabbing a fistful of Doubar's shirt and hauling him toward the tiller. "We need to get going."

Doubar shakes him off. "No," he says, rounding on Maeve again. "Rumina conspired with Scratch to steal your soul, and has been after us all since that girl joined our crew. We're all in danger because of her, and I deserve to know why." The color in his cheeks deepens and his normally jovial face turns grim.

"Rumina's been after us since I killed her father—Maeve has nothing to do with it." Sinbad steps between them, close enough to smell his brother, old sweat and sour wine. "Rumina hates her because she's jealous of any woman near me. That's all."

"That's not all," Doubar insists. "You think I'm stupid, but I'm not. Everyone knows they have a past. I want to know what it is. I _deserve_ to know what it is!"

"Easy, Doubar." Firouz puts a gentle hand on his arm. "Try taking a deep breath. You'll feel better."

Doubar pushes the scientist roughly away, nearly unbalancing him. "I'll feel better when I have some answers." His pale, grey-blue eyes stare at Maeve, hot with accusation. "Well, girl? What did you do to her? How did you make her so mad?"

Maeve was poisoned near death yesterday, and Sinbad can see the dark circles under her eyes, the weary way she holds her head, proud but spent. She shifts her feet on the deck of his ship, planting herself firmly as if readying for a physical fight. She's exhausted but she refuses to back down. "What makes you think I did anything?" she demands.

"Because you act without thinking," Doubar snaps, as if he's not doing the same right now. "What did you do to her?"

"Nothing!" she roars back, but her abused throat can't take the shout. A coughing fit hits her hard and she doubles over, fighting for breath.

"That's enough!" Sinbad turns his back on his brother, hands reaching for his sorceress, but she pulls roughly away, striding toward the rail. She spits bloody phlegm into the sea, her face bright pink as she coughs.

"Drink," Firouz urges, moving swiftly to her side. He steadies the mug in her hands; she splutters but manages to swallow. "I know it's difficult, but try not to cough. It irritates the throat. Aconite eats away at the inner organs; they need time to heal."

"She can't shriek?" An unpleasant smile curls across Doubar's mouth. "Finally!"

"Quit it." Sinbad's about to lose it. She needs rest, not hounding. "Maeve, I want you to go below. You're off duty today."

Her fire-dark eyes explode with anger. She draws breath to argue, choking back the coughs in her throat.

"Will you for once follow orders without arguing?" He wants her hale and healthy, not gasping for air and coughing up blood.

"No. She's not capable of that." Doubar steps between her and the door. "And I want answers. Our lives are in danger because of her, and I have a right to know what she did to Rumina!"

"Nothing!" Maeve's hoarse voice sounds so painful. Sinbad wants her to stop talking, but he can't bear to tell her to be quiet. Her eyes shine, glassy and wet with tears brought on by coughing. He hopes only by coughing. "She wanted my brother!" The words explode out of her, rough and furious, rasping her abused throat. "Like she wants Sinbad. He refused her, and paid the price!"

"What price?" Doubar demands. He stumps closer to her. She doesn't back down. "What happened?"

"That's none of your goddamn business!"

"No—that's not going to work this time. Not on me." Doubar towers over her. She's used to looking most men in the eye, but she has to tilt her head up to meet Doubar's glare. "Sinbad lets you get away with it, but I'm not sweet on you like he is. You want to be part of this crew? You play by the same rules everybody else does. Sinbad's soul is at stake, our lives in danger, and I'm sick of all the lies!"

He's furious, bellowing. His face glows deep, livid red, his pupils tiny dots, nearly obscured by the grey. Sinbad doesn't know if he's ever seen his brother angrier.

Maeve's just as enraged, tall and fierce, uncowed by the giant man's anger, the way he looms over her. "What Rumina did to my family has nothing to do with you! It just means we have a common enemy." Her voice croaks out of her, a weak counterpoint to Doubar's roar. "And I _am_ a member of this crew. I pull my own weight, and then some! You don't get to tell me any differently!"

Rongar appears at Sinbad's side, a silent, concerned presence. His eyes hold the questions he can't speak as he looks between the two snarling crewmembers, expecting Sinbad to intervene. Keely saved Maeve's life last night but her magic didn't alleviate all the aftereffects of the poison—Maeve is tired and hurting, and the last thing her throat needs right now is a shouting match.

"Enough!" Sinbad hates pulling rank on either of them, but he will when he has to. "Doubar, Maeve's right. She's proved herself many times over. She doesn't need to do it again."

His brother's eyes blaze. "No brother of mine would take a barbarian girl's side over mine!"

Sinbad steps close, close enough to smell his brother, to feel the fury vibrating through him. He holds his eyes, staring the bigger man down. "You hate being told to think, so don't make me say it." They're all guilty sometimes of saying things they'll later regret. When Doubar holds his nephew or niece for the first time, he'll wish this fight never happened.

But that day isn't today. Doubar growls with renewed anger. "No! You want to think I'm stupid, fine, think I'm stupid! But I'm not! Something's very wrong here, and she's the cause! She's been hiding and lying from the beginning, and I'm tired of it!" He shoulders Sinbad aside. "I want to know what happened to your brother, if you even have one. I want to know who that green woman is, and why she's so intent on you going north. I want to know what you were really doing when you said you were at a library, come to that."

Maeve blinks. Her brow furrows. "A moon ago? With Sinbad? We were at a library! What did you fucking think we were doing?"

They were at a library, yes. Technically. But not for books. Sinbad isn't sure why Doubar brought that up again, unless Keely calling herself a librarian triggered his memory.

"Tell me why I should believe anything that comes out of your mouth?" Doubar demands. "All you ever do is lie, and complain, and defy orders!"

"I'm not a liar!" She's not—not by inclination. She and Sinbad have been forced into this position by Scratch and Rumina, but it's not one they would have ever chosen on their own. His heart aches for her, for what this is doing to her. She adores Doubar, but Sinbad doesn't know if their relationship can survive this strain. "Tell me one time I've lied to you," she demands, putting Doubar on the spot. "Name one fucking time!"

It's a huge gamble—she's lied a lot recently, though not by choice. But does Doubar know it? He can sense it, can feel the tension and uncertainty that comes with deceit, but Sinbad doubts he can pinpoint any specific instance where Maeve has been untruthful.

"You said you didn't know anything about the Tam Lin Protocol, but you did!" Doubar accuses.

"I did not! I knew the fireside tale, and I told it to you. I didn't know the protocol."

Sinbad believes her. He suspects she guessed what the protocol might entail before they were told; she has a quick mind and a working knowledge of how magic functions. That doesn't mean she lied.

"What about that library?" Doubar returns uncomfortably close to the topic about which both Maeve and Sinbad have told the most untruths, hiding their trip to Breakwater for the _teas_ behind an acceptable veneer. Rumina and Scratch already knew they would seek knowledge, any information that might help them break Scratch's hold on his soul. A trip to a library felt thoroughly plausible, and Doubar seemed to accept it at the time.

"What about it?" Maeve snaps, cautious as Doubar treads far too close to tender subjects. She keeps Breakwater secret to protect the _sìthichean_, Antoine and Nessa and the little girls, and also to protect the precious books, the work her people do piecing together the remnants of their shattered history. This is absolutely her right, and Sinbad tenses, prepared to step in again if necessary.

"You never explained why you have access to a magical library when Dim-Dim didn't."

How Doubar remembers that argument, Sinbad doesn't know. He tends to be forgetful, and doesn't hold on to past gripes. For some reason this one stuck, and he wishes it hadn't. Maeve doesn't deal well with direct questions, doesn't like being forced to give parts of herself she doesn't willingly offer.

"It doesn't matter," Sinbad says, trying to regain control of the situation, or at least to pull Doubar's focus from Maeve to him.

"It does!" Doubar insists. "She's lying. I know it. And you're not stupid. You're either willingly blind or playing along. Which is it?"

Sinbad opens his mouth, though he's not sure how to answer that question. He's not blind at all, willingly or otherwise, nor is he playing along. He simply knows more than his brother does, and it's a conundrum without a remedy because they can't discuss the Protocol openly. Maeve's life depends on secrecy.

"No one is lying!" Maeve's had it. She throws her mug, which flies dangerously close to Doubar's head. It shatters against the mast, the shards falling to the deck with a musical crash. "Scratch and Rumina are making you crazy! You're seeing danger where there is none!"

"Paranoia," Firouz says quietly.

"I don't need a vocabulary lesson!" she snaps at him. He shuts his mouth quickly.

"There's every danger!" Doubar insists. "If there wasn't, you'd be honest!"

She is honest, one of the most honest people Sinbad has ever met. That's one of the things he treasures about her, and one of the things that makes her life so difficult. Hiding what she thinks and how she feels doesn't come naturally to her. She lacks the tactful filter people expect, especially from women, and most don't know how to handle that. Sinbad loves it. Others do not.

She breathes deep, inhaling a slow lungful of warm air, fiery eyes considering the big, bulky man before her. "What do you want to know?" she says finally.

Her question catches Doubar off guard. Momentarily speechless, he looks to Firouz for help.

"Brí Leith," Firouz says, though he sounds like he expects a fireball to the face for speaking. "It was the finest library in the west."

Maeve's face darkens. "I know that. And you're about a dozen years out of date if you think it still stands."

He ducks his head. "The green woman. Your sister? She got upset when I mentioned it. Like you." He swallows, but his eyes are bright beneath his characteristic scholarly squint. He's wanted these answers for a while. "There was a massacre, I know. But not everything burned, did it?"

Maeve breathes. Her throat moves as she swallows, and she can't quite conceal the flash of pain it causes. Sinbad wants to stop this, to make her lie down and rest, but he doesn't quite dare. Maybe, just maybe, if she gives Doubar a little information, the fighting will stop. Trust can be rebuilt. He'll never demand it of her, but if she's willing he won't stop her.

"Not everything burned," she agrees finally, her hoarse voice barely more than a whisper.

Whether this interests Doubar at all, Sinbad doesn't know, but Firouz's eyes gleam with pleasure and he inhales a quick, excited breath. "I knew it! But nothing purported to come from the wreckage ever made it to market."

"Brí Leith was massacred by the pope's men, not Vikings. They weren't interested in plunder. Only carnage." There's a cold darkness in her eyes Sinbad's thoroughly unused to. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. He steps toward her. She steps away.

Sinbad wouldn't dare ask more. Not with the way Maeve looks, the warning in her eyes. But Firouz takes no notice. He's lost on a scholarly hunt for information.

"How much of the collection was saved? Where is it?" He pushes his curly hair out of his face with an impatient hand. "It's in this library you went to, yes. But where?"

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I told you before that it was restricted, and I meant it. Nobody wants what happened at Brí Leith to happen again." She's absolutely firm in this, as Sinbad knew she would be.

"If it's so exclusive, why do you have access?" Doubar demands. "You're just a student! Dim-Dim ought to be admitted, but not you. That's what you refuse to answer, and that's what I want to know!"

The skin around Maeve's eyes tightens as she scowls. She's furious, and for a moment Sinbad's afraid she might physically attack. She's never done so before, but Doubar has never pushed her like this. Her cheeks burn vividly pink, as hot as the fire in her eyes. "Because I was there, you fucking asshole! Only two children came out of that massacre alive. You think the ruling council would deny me anything now?"

She shoves Doubar hard, pushing him out of her way as she storms below, the door slamming behind her.

Silence reigns. Sinbad breathes slowly. One breath, two. Three. He counts to ten, and then does it again for good measure. When he's sure he has control of his temper, he turns to his brother. "You will never do that to her again. Do you hear me? If you can't be civil, leave her alone." His voice is low and even, but there's steel behind it. He'll put Doubar ashore without a second thought if his brother tries that again. Doubar wants information, and there's an argument to be made that he deserves it, but not at the cost Maeve pays to give it. She may not believe that stress will hurt the child inside her, but Sinbad does. She's already been through too much in the past day, and she doesn't need Doubar making it worse. He was wrong. Giving up this information did nothing to soothe Doubar, only upset Maeve. It's not an experiment he'll condone again.

"But Brí Leith, Sinbad," Firouz says, his eyes still bright.

"I don't care!" He rounds on his best friend. "We're not scholars, we're sailors. Remember? Let her be."

Firouz pauses. Then, as if he can't help himself, he asks, "Do you really think she was there?"

Sinbad already knew she was. She didn't have to tell him. He's seen the books with his own eyes, smelled the lingering scent of old smoke. He knows who the other survivor was without asking. "She was there," he says, struggling not to snap at Firouz. He gets engrossed in the quest for knowledge and everything else fades away, and Sinbad knows this. He can't fault him for who he is.

"I heard it was a bloodbath," Firouz says. He's pale below his suntan. "Brí Leith was like a small city, except instead of commerce it ran on knowledge. But there were no soldiers, no warriors or guards to protect the scholars when invaders came."

Sinbad doesn't want to hear any more. Not from Firouz. Maeve will tell him when she's ready. How long that will be, he doesn't know—Doubar and Firouz may have made things worse today in that respect, not better. He can't do anything about that now. When she's upset she wants to be left alone, so he'll do his best to oblige. They'll set sail, and he'll bring her some more broth in a while. Once she's had a chance to cool down.

* * *

Sinbad isn't really surprised when Antoine shows up late in the afternoon. Doubar curses in surprise and drops the rope in his hand as a strange man appears on deck. Rongar grabs it, steadying the sail.

Ant wears a heavy, loose linen shirt over his wings and a beaded headband of green and brown that covers the points of his ears. His style of dress is distinctly northern, but other than that, he wouldn't arouse any suspicion in a southern city. Sinbad clasps his hand in greeting, ignoring the stares of his crew. He's still furious with Doubar and he owes no one any explanations.

"She okay?" the _sìthiche_ asks.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Ant shrugs. "They fight. They get over it. Eventually."

"I think Keely was even more upset that I wouldn't fight with her."

"That's what I do. You can't win when she gets like that, so there's no point in trying." He glances at the pounding sun. "That's hot. I don't know how you stand it."

"I don't know how you stand the cold." Sinbad feels his mouth smile out of habit, though he's not happy at all. "Come down below. It's stuffy, but there's no glare."

They clatter down to the galley. No one follows them. Sinbad would order back up anyone who tried. He waves at Maeve's closed door. "She's there. You can poke your head in if you want, but she's not in a good mood."

"I'll pass." Ant takes the mug of ale Sinbad offers. "Neither of them were ready to talk sense when Maeve left. But I worry."

"You've every right to." Sinbad sits heavily at one side of the galley table, leaning his arms on its rough surface. "Doubar went at her again when we got back to the ship. He means well, but he's only making everything worse."

Ant drinks his ale. "Dermott still gone?"

Sinbad nods.

The _sìthiche_ sighs. "I hate this."

"You and me both."

Antoine clears his throat. "I came with a proposition." He watches Sinbad in the shadowy galley.

"About?" Sinbad isn't surprised. Antoine wouldn't show himself to the rest of the crew if he just came to chat. He doesn't worry about being seen as much as Maeve worries for him, but he's not heedless of the danger.

"Keel isn't the only one worried about Maeve. We all are." Antoine drinks and stretches his legs out under the table. "Have you figured out how to keep her safely fed, now that Rumina's made her threat?"

"No." Admitting this isn't easy, but it's easier with Ant than Keely. Antoine demands nothing, insists on nothing. "We could gather wild food until Samhain, but I can't guarantee we'll find enough. The best plan I can think of is to only resupply in large cities, where there are multiple vendors and Rumina can't so easily guess our next moves."

"It's better than nothing," Ant allows. Black eyes consider Sinbad cautiously. "What would you say to us keeping you supplied for a while? Just until Samhain. Until this fight with Scratch is resolved."

Sinbad forces himself to consider the offer instead of discarding it outright. He doesn't like it. They're not destitute—he's always been able to feed his crew, and he hates the thought of accepting what feels like a handout. That the offer comes from Maeve's family, people committed to keeping her safe, doesn't really make him feel any better.

"I know," Ant says, even before Sinbad can voice his concerns. "You don't like it."

"No man would." Sinbad has always worked for everything he's ever had. He always pays his debts, whether through barter, service, or coin. The thought of letting others provide for his crew doesn't sit right with him.

"I know." Ant drinks, then cups his mug between his hands. "It grates. But try to think about it from our perspective. That's my baby sister Rumina just tried to kill. She may not live with us anymore, but that doesn't make her any less ours. I don't know what we'd do if we lost her."

Sinbad knows. He does. She's precious to them, just as she's precious to him. They love her. They want to do whatever they can to protect her. "It's my fault she's a target. She and Rumina have always been at odds, I know, but right now it's because of the Tam Lin Protocol." He chooses his words carefully, more aware than ever that Rumina could be eavesdropping. Ant knows Maeve is with child. Rumina can't. "It's because Rumina wants me." Because Maeve is carrying his child. "That makes taking care of her more my job than ever."

Ant releases his cup and watches Sinbad with knowing black eyes. "You feel guilty."

"I am guilty." It's not about how he feels, it's about facts. "This is my fault."

"This is Rumina's fault. Scratch's fault. Not yours."

Sinbad acknowledges this with a dip of his head, but it doesn't make him feel any better. "But without me, Maeve wouldn't be a target for Rumina right now."

"Without you, Maeve would probably be dead right now," Ant says frankly. "She's headstrong and angry. You and Dim-Dim are the only two people who've ever managed to cool that fire. I never met the old man, but she spoke of him often enough. She has a hard time trusting people, respecting people. Not him. And not you." One side of his mouth crooks upward. "She loves Keel and Dermott like mad, but the three of them are like lit sparks, each fueling the other. With you it's different."

He's not sure he ever thought of it that way before. To him, Maeve isn't a wild horse that needs to be broken. She's perfect just the way she is. He had to learn how to handle her, how to approach her in a way that wouldn't cause rebellion, but he never had to learn to appreciate her. That was automatic—instantaneous. He can't say he loved her from the start, but he knew immediately that she was going to change his world.

"I get it. I do. You're the captain. The protector. The provider. We've gone over this before." Ant's grin warms slightly. "She's yours, and so is—" He cuts himself off just in time, scowling at the air. "Fuck, I hate this."

"Try constantly living with it."

Ant grimaces. "No thanks." He drinks. "They're yours, in any case—all these people. They depend on you. Rely on you."

"Exactly. A captain's job isn't just to yell at everyone. It's my duty to keep them alive. Keep them safe."

"And we rely on Maeve." Ant drops his head to stare at his hands. "I know it sounds strange. She's the youngest. She's your crewmember. But so much is riding on her, captain." He raises his eyes, shadowed and dark in the gloom below deck. "We're not complete without Dermott, and she's the only one who has a chance at freeing him. Niall and Wren aren't fighters, even if they didn't have all those kids to worry about. They just aren't. Ness and I can't travel openly in the south. Keel could have gone, but she has children now."

"I know." Sinbad hates the necessity of Maeve leaving home alone as much as Ant does, but he understands it. She's the only one who can do this.

"We all told Ness to move on, to try to find someone else. _Dermott_ told her to move on. But she won't. She wants him or no one. If we lost Maeve, she'd forever lose the hope to get him back."

Sinbad can't imagine how that must feel. He worries about Doubar sometimes, whether his brother will ever find a good woman who loves him, but Doubar has never been in love. He doesn't know what he's missing, and he doesn't seem to care most of the time. Nessa's different. She had Dermott. She loves him—the young man he once was. It must be beyond difficult for Ant to see that, to know she's hurting while he's unable to help.

"I don't know what it would do to Keel if she lost Maeve." Ant spins his mug in his hands with a restless, uneasy motion. "And Mia adores her. She was born into her hands."

"Not yours?" That surprises Sinbad. He's never known a father to be present at the birth of his child, but the men of Breakwater seem to do things differently.

Ant snorts. "I told you—women don't like us butting in. Ness and Wren wouldn't let me near. Once I heard Keel yelling I figured maybe it was for the best." He winces at the memory. "Niall and I got blackout drunk. The next thing I remember, there was a tiny, wrinkly new little person in my arms and I was bawling louder than she was." He grins.

Will they do that for him, too, when Maeve's time comes? Sinbad doesn't know how he feels, what he'll want. By the time she bears, he'll be able to be honest with his crew again. He has no way of knowing what that will change.

"My point is, we depend on Maeve, just like she depends on you. We're all interconnected, whether you like it or not."

"I know you are. _We_ are," Sinbad corrects himself quickly. Maeve is his family, no matter what Doubar says, and the people of Breakwater are hers. That makes Antoine his brother just as much as Firouz or Rongar.

"Families help each other. That's what they're for." Ant glances at Maeve's closed door. No sound comes from behind it. The walls of the Nomad are thin; if she's awake, she can hear them perfectly well. Sinbad hopes she's not. Her body needs rest. "For all the screaming they do at each other, I don't know that Keel would survive that loss, Sinbad."

Sinbad struggles. He can't let Maeve come to harm—that's the bottom line, and he knows it. But accepting handouts goes against everything he believes. He's her _céile—_would be her husband in an instant if she ever agreed. It's his job to provide for her, not Antoine's.

Antoine gets it; he knows the man does. He understands male pride, and though Sinbad doesn't know the details, he knows he's been dirt-poor before. The mention of sleeping outdoors in a northern winter says enough. Sinbad's not poor, and if his fortunes suddenly changed he could call in favors from wealthy friends like Omar of Basra if need be. That's not charity, it's just what he's owed, and it doesn't feel the same as letting Maeve's people feed her through a pregnancy she didn't want in the first place, a pregnancy she's only undertaking for his sake.

"Look," Ant says softly, "it's not my place. It's not my place at all, and I shouldn't do this. But...do you know what Breakwater is? Why we're there?"

Sinbad looks at the man warily. If Maeve's awake, she can hear them. He hopes Ant knows that. "It's a library. There was a fire. You're picking up the pieces."

"That's it? That's all you know?"

Sinbad hesitates. Maeve won't like this at all, and the last thing he wants to do right now is upset her again. "The old library was called Brí Leith. Firouz tried to get Maeve to talk about it, but she refused. All she said was that she was there."

Ant glances at her door again. There's no sound from her little cabin. "Aye, she was there. And she's the reason we're at Breakwater." He rubs sweat from his forehead. "You weren't kidding when you said it was stuffy down here."

"We're below the waterline. Hard to have windows."

Ant grimaces. "That's...kind of disturbing. Clearly I wasn't meant to sail."

Sinbad chuckles. "You get used to it. No landlocked comfort is worth giving up a sunset on the open sea. Or waking up somewhere new every morning."

"I'll take your word for it." Antoine taps his callused fingers on the side of his mug. "Maeve won't like this. I know that. But you need to know."

Part of Sinbad wants to argue. He wants to know, but the last thing he wants is to hurt Maeve. He looks at her door. She's either asleep or choosing not to interfere. He wonders which. "Know what?" he says finally.

He holds his breath, unsure he's ready to hear what Ant has to tell him. The man has the answers he's been waiting for, but he wanted them from Maeve. Not her brother. He wants her to trust him with her secrets, wants her to feel secure enough to share the parts of herself she still hides away. There are gaps in her history, things he doesn't yet understand. Dermott took her from their violent father when she was extremely young. At some point they acquired Keely. Maeve and her brothers have all made mention of living rough—wandering, essentially homeless. But whatever hardships they faced are clearly behind them now. Breakwater isn't opulent, isn't a palace, but it's big and beautiful and must have cost a fortune to build. They have a seemingly unlimited supply of fresh food at their fingertips, and the wealth of books and scribing materials upstairs. It doesn't make sense.

The _sìthiche_ closes his eyes and exhales a deep breath. He pauses for a long moment before speaking. "When Dermott took Maeve away from their father, she was just a tiny thing. Younger than Mia. He tried, but without a home, without anything but the clothes on their backs, he couldn't care for her. So he took her to Brí Leith. They were well known for taking orphan students, children with magical talent or an aptitude for learning. Maeve was younger than they usually accept, but she already showed impressive ability. They agreed to foster her, and Dermott apprenticed himself with a horse trainer nearby."

Sinbad is currently mad as hell at Dermott for deserting his sister, but he can't help feeling bad for the boy he once was. That was a canny move for a boy so young, and despite his anger Sinbad's respect for Maeve's brother grows. Doubar had Dim-Dim and a safe home to return to after the storm that killed their parents, but Dermott had a baby sister barely more than a toddler and nothing to fall back on. Accepting that he could not care for her, and placing her with people who could, must have been one of the most difficult decisions of his young life. And he stayed close, choosing to apprentice himself nearby, where he could remain part of her life. He didn't abandon her, though no one would have faulted him for doing so.

"For hundreds of years the sanctity of Brí Leith was respected. People have been waging war on our islands for time out of mind, but no one touched the library." Antoine grips his empty mug. "For a time after Maeve was placed there, things were quiet. She won't talk about it, but Dermott says she thrived. She learned quickly, and she didn't mind dormitory life. The scholars at Brí Leith didn't live at the extremes religious monks do, depriving themselves of all earthly pleasures, but they led a spare life, particularly the students. Maeve never minded. Dermott said she was always happy when he visited—happy to see him, but also happy to be where she was." He smiles wistfully. "I wonder sometimes what she would have become, had she been allowed to finish growing up there. Educated. Safe."

Sinbad knows where this is going, and he hates it. "But there was a massacre."

Antoine nods. "Aye. No one touched Brí Leith for centuries. It was understood to be sacrosanct. Then the pope's men came." He stares into the shadows beyond Sinbad's shoulder, his eyes unfocused. "Maeve was seven or eight when it happened, I don't know. Something like that. She won't talk about it. Keely will. They met that night." His short, clipped sentences tell Sinbad that, despite the story being secondhand, telling it bothers him. "Keel was with her mother, a traveling midwife. They smelled the smoke, saw the flames early on, before most of the scholars probably knew what was happening. They went to help. The children's barracks had been set on fire, and soldiers had blocked the doors so no one could escape. Maeve and an older boy climbed up and broke through the roof. Keel says they were hauling other kids up when she first spied them, trying to get away from the flames. Keely and her mother stood below with an outstretched cloak to catch the kids who jumped. Maeve can't be burned by normal fire and she was up and down the rafters like a cat, Keel says, bringing others up. But then the archers came."

Sinbad feels sick. His mind remembers the smell of fire on the books at Breakwater. It's old now, but the pages remember. Maeve remembers.

"Keely's mother was killed quickly. Then they started aiming for the children." Ant's shoulders hitch. "She says she doesn't remember very clearly—it was chaos. Flames everywhere, all the buildings on fire. People screaming. Arrows flying. Then the roof of the children's barracks caved in. She says sometimes at night she can still hear those kids scream."

Sinbad feels cold despite the warmth of the room. If Keely still hears those screams, Maeve does, too.

"Maeve fell with the rest of them. She was the only one to walk out." Antoine's tall form is still, his restless movements quieted for once. "She and Keely ran for the nearby woods. Keel says they found an old fox den and hid for several days. I don't blame them. Maeve was maybe as old as Niall's eldest. Maybe. Keel was a couple of years older. When they finally came out, they refused to part."

Antoine once told Sinbad the girls had been through hell together. He meant it. Anyone who claims they're not sisters doesn't understand trial by fire.

"Dermott was there, in the wreckage. He thought Maeve was dead; he was looking for her body. Most of the children were unrecognizable, and probably didn't have families to mourn them anyway. The fires had mostly burned out by the time the girls emerged, but their worlds had changed forever. Almost everyone from Brí Leith was dead. They were academics and children, you understand. Artists. Scribes. Tinkerers. Not warriors. Not soldiers. People like Keely's mother and Dermott's master, neighbors who saw the flames and came to help, were mostly dead, too."

Sinbad isn't stupid. This is how war works. It's brutal and crushing and unfair, but not unusual. What happened at Maeve's home was textbook. But he's sick with the thought that his sorceress endured something so brutal so young. Twice she had her home ripped away from her—once by a violent, brutal father, and then again by invaders to her land. He's not surprised that she swore she'd never bear children of her own. After everything she witnessed, everything she went through, it makes perfect sense.

"Dermott took both girls away with him. Keel and Maeve refused to be parted, and he didn't trust anyone else with his sister anymore. He came so close to losing her, and while it wasn't really anyone at Brí Leith's fault, he wasn't willing to trust them again."

Sinbad doesn't blame him. Doubar would have done the same. He struggles to imagine how Dermott must have felt when he saw the flames, knowing his sister was there. Sinbad has seen some terrible things in his time, but he's never combed the wreckage of a massacre, searching for the body of a loved one. He's given orders that led to the deaths of crewmembers before, but that can't compare to how Dermott must have felt, knowing he placed his baby sister somewhere that turned out to be her grave.

Except she didn't die. Her magical gift kept her alive. She walked out of the flames—hurt, probably, but alive. She and Keely fled, frightened little girls hiding from real monsters, the kind with human faces. And when they emerged, tired and hungry and scared, Dermott was there. He took them both, and together they learned how to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives.

"After the fire, Maeve wanted nothing more to do with learning. She swore she was done. Keely was the opposite." One corner of Ant's mouth flickers. "She said that if the pope's men wanted to take away their knowledge, she was going to do everything she could to keep it. Maeve took quickly to a wandering life, living outdoors, learning how to feed herself and the others, how to defend herself, how to fight. Keely attached herself to everyone they met, particularly healers and midwives, pestering them until they taught her what they knew. Dermott says Maeve never spoke of Brí Leith again, or the massacre. Keely did. She used it as a bargaining chip, told people she'd been there, lost her mother there. It was true, of course, but it was also a calculated move. Everyone knew what happened at Brí Leith, and no healer would deny knowledge to a child who'd been there." Ant chuckles softly. "For all that they're so alike, they're very different, too."

Sinbad can absolutely imagine this—he knows his Maeve well enough by now to understand how she would feel. Like him, she seeks control. Not over other people, but over her world. She doesn't want to be a ruler, but she craves the safety that lies in confidence and security, security that was ripped away from her too young when her world went up in flame. He doesn't doubt that she shied away from all reminders of what she'd lost, refusing to continue her studies, refusing the pain of memory that came with it. He did the same when he lost Leah, refusing to love, to open his heart to other people for fear of losing them, too. Both of them were wrong, he knows now. But he doesn't blame the children that they were for those choices.

"She kept that promise," he says, feeling one side of his mouth curl in a sad, wistful smile. "Didn't she? Until she couldn't anymore."

Antoine nods. "Yeah. Dim-Dim found her near Baghdad. She was intent on hunting Rumina—killing the witch. He stopped her. Convinced her that, without restarting her training, she could never hope to win. She has a lot of lost time to make up, but she's a fast learner."

Why did Dim-Dim do it? Sinbad wishes he knew. Magical ability is rare, but not so rare that those with it are sought out, cajoled to train and lauded for doing so. Dim-Dim can sometimes see the future, and Sinbad wonders if this is one of those times, if his old master saw something that made him decide to intervene.

Antoine clears his throat. "Meanwhile," he says, shaking himself lightly as if to wake up, "the few scholars from Brí Leith who escaped the flames formed a council. Some had been away at the time of the massacre. A handful survived it. How they saved so many books, I still don't know. The sorcerers must have had something to do with it."

Sinbad refills their mugs, though he's not thirsty. There's still no noise from Maeve's cabin. He hopes she's sleeping.

"They decided that what was left of Brí Leith was too precious to trust to fate, and so they founded the first of the Breakwaters. Putting all our knowledge in one place again was too dangerous. They divided the remains of the library seven ways, and picked seven far-flung places in Eire to put them. They called for the most powerful sorcerers and mages willing to help, _sìthiche_ and human alike, and spent several years crafting the protective spells that keep us safe from invasion now."

Sinbad blinks. "Dim-Dim helped. Didn't he? I remember he journeyed north with the caliph's leave. Aiden, my captain at the time, took him as far as the Pillars of Hercules, where he switched ships."

"Could be." Ant sips the warm ale. "That was before my time. Ness and I grew up like most _sìthiche_ children, hiding in the shadows. Celts who follow the old ways are friendly to us, but it's not always easy to tell followers of the old ways from followers of the pope until it's too late." He looks tired. Sinbad feels the same. "Our parents were killed by _indagators—_hunters sent by the pope. We were on our own until we met Dermott and the girls. It may sound ridiculous, but it felt like I'd known Dermott all my life. We were brothers from the start."

"Even though he liked Nessa?" Sinbad asks knowingly.

Ant grins. "That girl. She's always been a beauty, and men have always watched her, since long before they had any business looking at her like that. Then we met Dermott, and he was like me, except he had two of them to worry about. Joining up seemed like the most natural thing to do. I saw the way he looked at her, but I trusted him. He wouldn't have laid a finger on her without her consent." His smile turns sheepish. "I touched Keely first. Well, she tackled me, but I didn't stop her. I probably should have—I didn't know just how young she was. She wouldn't tell me."

"Is that why Dermott beat you?"

Ant shrugs. "He beat me because that was his job. I didn't take it personally. Later I found him with Ness and I figured we were even." He drinks his ale. "Maeve was just a kid, like I said before, and she was very much against falling in love. Sex, babies—all of it. She had a hard time trusting anyone, even Ness and me at first."

"Can you blame her?"

"No. I never blame anyone for what they are. We're all shaped by circumstance, whether we choose to believe it or not. Maeve can't help being wary any more than you can help that brand you wear."

It's true, and it's why Sinbad doesn't get frustrated with her as Doubar so often does. She is what her world has made her. Her story is one of loss and heartache, but also triumph. Despite the odds, she built a family with Keely, with Ant and Nessa, Niall and Wren and their children. She did so again when she joined Sinbad's crew. She may be wary and mistrustful, but her heart still functions. She still loves deeply, if not so fearlessly as someone who's never been hurt.

"Anyway, the Breakwaters were founded and slowly built and staffed, one at a time. Most of the people in Eire with the proper training either died at Brí Leith or belonged to the pope, so it took time to find people both willing and able to run the Breakwaters. Preference was given to survivors."

Sinbad looks up from his mug. "Like Maeve."

Ant nods. "Like Maeve. We went to the council after Dermott was cursed. It was practically the first place we went, seeking knowledge. They couldn't help us free Dermott, but they hadn't known any children survived the massacre. When they realized who Maeve was, and Keely, too, the council offered them the seventh and final Breakwater. They were appalled that two survivors were living like vagrants, though it suited Maeve just fine. Niall and Wren were with us by then, and Niall had defected from Lindisfarne, so he had the necessary knowledge to run a library."

Sinbad settles back slowly on the bench. This is the missing piece to the puzzle, the key that unlocks the mystery. Maeve is the linchpin. The house at Breakwater is hers, by law and by blood right. She survived the burning of Brí Leith, and her reward, Keely's reward, is the safety and security of a tiny islet off the coast of Eire, blanketed by protective spells, a comfortable and quiet rest of her life. A real breakwater protects a harbor from storms. These hidden repositories protect Maeve's people just as much. They keep and store her people's culture, their heritage, from the wrath of invaders. They're aptly named.

Except Maeve doesn't want that quiet, sheltered life—not for herself. Whether by birth or circumstance, something in her refuses to be tamed, refuses to settle down. The child-scholar Dermott used to visit at Brí Leith might have been happy with that sort of life, but not the woman Maeve has become. She needs a bigger sky, a further horizon.

"We work hard," Antoine says quietly. "But it's nothing like how we used to live. Summers were heaven, but the rest of the year was hell. We were always wet. Always cold. Always hungry—and I don't mean just hungry. I mean starving. Wren would have lost more than one of those boys if her pregnancies were earlier or later by a few moons, just because we couldn't have kept her fed. One illness would have wiped us all out, even with Keely's magic. Life is brutal when you have nothing, and have no way to fix that." Hard lines appear around his mouth, lines Sinbad has never seen before. "I felt like a failure as a man, but I'd do anything to keep my children from living that way. When the seventh Breakwater was offered to Maeve and Keely, it was everything I wanted to give my sisters but never could. A roof over their heads. A surfeit of food. Safety—maybe that more than anything else. A task and a purpose." He raises his dark eyes to Sinbad. "What I'm trying to say, I guess, is that I get it. I do. We work for everything we have, but we only got the chance because of Maeve. Not me. Not Dermott. We owe that girl everything. If you let us help you now, you're giving us a chance to repay that debt."

Sinbad has no words. He knew he was going to give in—Maeve's safety depends on it, and he refuses to gamble with that. But he didn't know how much Ant understood this struggle, the pressure of male pride, of what he wants versus what circumstance demands. Dermott couldn't provide for Maeve when they were children, so he gave her into the care of people who could. Ant and Niall made a similar decision when they accepted Breakwater. They were living before, but they weren't thriving, and they wanted better for their family. For their children. They couldn't provide, but Maeve could. For the sake of everyone involved, Ant and Niall let her. Sinbad has to do the same. For Maeve's sake. For his child's sake. His crew's sake.

He reaches across the table. Antoine clasps his hand.


	21. Chapter 21

_A/N: Hi, guys! The Mountain is almost done, and I felt like checking in with this Maeve, hope you don't mind. _

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve pulls herself slowly out of her narrow little bunk, blinking as the pale light of a crowning dawn filters through a single chink in the decking above her. She hurts, and as she dresses she moves sluggishly, hindered by sleepy clumsiness and her uncomfortable body. She breathes deeply but the stuffy air inside her cabin does little to dispel her aches and thus little to ease her mind. She wants to be up top, in the freshness of a new morning, before the scorching southern sun begins its relentless march across the sky.

This is the second night in a row she accidentally fell asleep in her own bunk while waiting for the rest of the crew to settle. She can't make the silent trek across the galley to Sinbad, to his more comfortable bed and waiting arms, until she's sure everyone except the man on night watch is asleep, and that wait is getting more and more difficult. She wants to be with him—she doesn't sleep nearly as well without his firm arms holding her tightly, the very male scent of salty sweat and hot skin surrounding her. But lately her body has been craving sleep, aching for it like a habitual drunkard aches for wine, and for two nights running she hasn't been able to resist its call. Waking alone, after first light, makes her irritable. She wants to feel his rough-soft grip down to her bones, the way he squeezes her tight against his chest for a long, perfect moment when she moves to leave his bed, his mouth seeking hers sleepily in the dark, as reluctant to release her as she is to go.

She can't have that moment of morning sweetness when she sleeps alone, and the loss fouls her mood. She wants him, and the few hours of total dark and silence in the middle of the night are all she's allowed. That her body's new insistence on sleep denies her even this makes her inordinately angry. Not at him, but at her own weakness. At this whole convoluted, wretched situation. Very much at Scratch and Rumina, who forced them here in the first place.

Her body hurts, too, and not the good, lingering ache after a well-spent night with her sailor, no matter how silent they have to be. Her breasts are sore, her back is sore, and her whole body feels puffy and uncomfortable—ungainly, though to her own eye she doesn't look discernibly different. Her belly remains flat, and while she swears her clothes fit a little differently than they used to, they don't _not_ fit. She scowls, wishing for someone she could gripe at.

Drawing her knife, she crouches and marks a little notch in the lowest wooden plank next to her door. Normally she has no real need to mark the passage of days, but she's done so since returning from the _teas_. It helps her keep track of both this pregnancy and the time left before Samhain. On that night, Scratch will attempt to collect Sinbad's soul. Maeve's entire focus right now is ensuring that does not happen. Sinbad needs her. Yes, another woman might be able to break this curse, but Antoine and that insufferable al-Alawy both said that the closer the bond, the greater the magic. She loves him, and she's his best chance. That means the fate of his soul rests solely in her hands, in her ability to keep their child both alive and secret.

Each little tally notched into the wood near the base of the door is one more day she's done her job, one more day she's succeeded in keeping that little spark of life inside her safe. She breathes softly in the near-black of her cabin, touching the little notches in the wood with a fingertip. It's been two moons since the _teas_. She still has a very long way to go.

But she's going to do it. She hears the man on mess duty begin preparing breakfast as she shoves her feet into her boots and checks the motion of her dagger in its sheath. She's Sinbad's best chance, and she refuses to lose him. She didn't come south looking for a man, but now that she has one she will not let their enemies take him away. He's too important—not just to her, but to the world. The good he does may be small in the grand scheme of things, but the fact that he does it is not. Dim-Dim taught her enough to understand that. The world needs him.

And so does she, as reluctant as she is to admit it. She fought this bond wildly at first, like a young horse fighting a tether, but struggling did nothing to change it. She pulls some of her hair back so it doesn't blow into her face so badly, binding it with a loose bit of twine. She wanted no man, no _céile_, just her beloved brother restored to his true form, tall and proud at her side once more. How she ended up here, with child and bonded permanently to its father, abandoned by her Dermott, she's not entirely sure. Things just sort of...happened. And then this mess with Scratch and Rumina was dropped firmly into her lap, forcing her to make a choice before she otherwise would have. She wasn't ready to admit how much she loves her captain, wasn't ready to bind herself so thoroughly with another person. Certainly she wasn't ready to reconsider having children, which she long ago vowed never to do.

But Sinbad.

Weighed against the potential loss of his soul, there was no other option. But that doesn't mean she isn't resentful sometimes, in moments like these, that she was forced. Not by him, but by Scratch and Rumina. By the curse. Maybe they were always meant to meet. Maybe this child she carries was always meant to be hers. But her brother is furious, so furious that he abandoned her—left her alone for the first time in her life. Yes, she loves Sinbad. Deeply. She's his, down to her bones, whether she wants to admit it or not. But in agreeing to save him, she's lost the other man she loves, the brother who has been by her side literally since the day she was born. That wasn't part of the deal when it was presented to her. Whether she would have chosen differently, had she known Dermott's reaction, she's afraid to ask herself. In these quiet moments, when she's alone and can't escape her thoughts, all she can do is cling to Dim-Dim's comforting words. He always said everything happens for a reason. She's skeptical, but when despair hits she holds to those words as if to a lifeline. She's helpless to do anything else.

Bracing herself for the day ahead, Maeve rises to her feet and lifts the latch on her door. She's intent on the open deck and fresh air, the promise of a new morning.

The first breath she takes destroys that plan.

The smell of smoke from the cooking fire and the hot, starchy scent of cooking grain make her stomach lurch violently. She hastily slams the door, shutting herself back into the stuffy darkness of her tiny cabin. Hell. She sinks onto the hard wooden edge of her bunk, breathing deeply as sweat instantly pricks her skin and her body shakes with the force of holding back a sudden, fierce wave of nausea. Unless she can retch silently, a trick she's doubtful of, she can't succumb.

Her stomach has been slightly off since the run-in with the poisoner in Cyprus, but she chalked it up to aftereffects of the monkshood. This is not, and she knows it. She struggles as her belly rebels, her body warring with her willpower, her irritable mood lighting into full-blown fury. This is a side effect of pregnancy most women encounter, but it's a particularly unwelcome one while she's trying to hide her condition. If she starts spewing her guts every time she smells food, everyone will know. Even oblivious Doubar will know. And that spells disaster.

She's never been one to loll in bed, but she drops to her side and lifts her legs onto the straw mattress, breathing slow and deep, concentrating hard on her inner musculature, imposing her iron will on her body as she has so many times before, in so many other circumstances. She forced her body to learn to fight when she was a child, pushed it beyond what it thought it could do. She's ignored hunger and injury and fatigue more times than she can remember, working through pain, pushing past weariness. She can do it again now, she tells herself firmly. She has no choice. If Scratch and Rumina learn she's carrying Sinbad's child they won't hesitate to kill her, and her death means the loss of three souls: hers, her child's, and Sinbad's. She can't let that happen, especially not over something so spitefully banal as an upset stomach. Maeve closes her eyes, focusing inward. To keep them all alive, her will has to be stronger than her body. She simply has no choice.

But hell, this feels awful. Not just her belly but the rest of her body, too. Her head swims, dizzy and suddenly seasick, very aware of the rolling ship under her as she's never been before. Cold sweat drenches her as her heart races and she feels like she can't get a good breath. Even behind her latched door the stuffy air now smells like food and smoke, and while these are usually comforting smells, promising a full belly and a moment of rest, in this moment they're intolerable. She breathes through her mouth as her whole body tenses against this feeling.

And as she fights nausea, telling her traitorous body that it will not win, she wishes for her sister. She's still furious with Keely and steadfastly not speaking to her, but Keely could fix this. Maeve knows she could. She's done it for Wren, done it for any woman who asked. But going to Keely would mean apologizing, enduring her snippy comments, and probably another fight before finally making up, and Maeve just doesn't have the physical or emotional energy right now. She can't.

A gentle knock sounds at her door. She buries her head in the crook of her arm, preferring the smell of her own skin to the scent of cooking food, and wills Sinbad to go away. It's him; it has to be. Doubar is furious with her—when he's not picking fights he pretends she doesn't exist—and everyone else knows better than to bother her. But not Sinbad. He's not afraid of her prickly temper, and she knows he must be worried. She didn't come to him last night and she's usually up before dawn, so he has some right to be concerned. But she can't handle his attention right now. Her stomach lurches as the ship drops down the windward side of a slightly larger swell, and a small whimper escapes her.

After a moment she hears not Sinbad's voice, but Doubar's. "Since when does the captain of a ship have to rouse a crewmember?" the first mate demands, grumpy and surly so early in the morning.

"Since that crewmember was poisoned near death," Sinbad snaps back, just as surly. He's right outside her door, as she suspected. He'll open it in a moment. She really, really wishes he wouldn't.

Honestly, she's all but recovered from that brush with Rumina's poisoner. It's been a little over a week and her sore throat has healed. Her belly was on its way until this morning's sudden setback. He has no reason to continue to worry, but he's Sinbad, so he does anyway.

And now he lifts the latch and opens her door, as she knew he would. Cool, early sunlight through the overhead hatches streams gently into the room. He stands just inside the doorway for a moment before stepping forward, crouching by her bedside. His hands rise and then abruptly fall again as he forces himself not to reach for her.

"_M__o chailín_," he says, soft voice laced with concern. Under normal circumstances it melts her, but right now all she wants is to be alone in her misery. She can smell him, salt-fresh from being on deck, but the open door also brings the smells of smoke and food—not just cooking grain but pickled fish now, too, and she wants to both weep and kill him at the same time.

What she looks like she has no idea, but one glance at her in the light is enough for him to rise swiftly from his crouch. "I'll get Firouz."

No, he absolutely will not. The last thing she needs right now is to be poked and prodded and gawked over by their resident scientist. She respects Firouz's convictions and loves him like a brother...and she wants him nowhere near her. She shakes her head, jaw clamped tightly shut, and points imperiously at the door. She only hopes she's emphatic enough, because if she opens her mouth she's going to retch all over him. Which would serve him right, but be otherwise ruinous.

"But you need help," he tries to protest.

She does not. Women deal with this every day. And anyway, Firouz will only make things worse. Keely could help but she can't have her sister right now, so the only thing Sinbad can do is leave her the hell alone. She buries her head back in her arms and studiously refuses to budge.

He shouldn't touch her in the light and he knows this, but she feels his hand on her hair anyway. She wants to shove it away. The touch of another person physically hurts as she struggles to keep her belly under control. Her world shrinks to this single fight, this sole purpose: not spewing her guts on her worried captain as he hovers and makes things worse.

Finally he leaves, removing his hand from her hair and striding from the room, but her relief is short-lived. He returns a moment later hauling Firouz behind him, just as she told him not to.

She's going to kill them. As soon as this spell passes and she feels better, she's going to kill both of them.

"What seems to be the trouble?" Firouz asks, affably enough.

Right now that open door is. She can smell sour, vinegary pickled fish, hot smoke from the cooking fire. The boiling grain is less offensive but still overwhelming. And people keep bothering her, Sinbad hovering, Firouz expecting an answer to his question, as she struggles to maintain control over her traitorous body.

Her stomach heaves as the ship pitches; her whole body surges as she manages not to vomit by the thinnest thread of control. She knows she'd feel better if she did, but she can't. She refuses.

"Oh." Firouz sounds chagrined as he sees her struggle. "I thought the effects of the aconite had passed."

They have. This is something else, but she can't tell him so. She can't tell anyone.

"Do you want to go up on deck? You may feel better there." Firouz mercifully backs away.

She considers. If they try to move her right now she may lose this battle against her stomach, but if she stays here, amid the intolerable smell of the cooking food, she's going to lose it anyway. She tightens her jaw, swallows a mouthful of saliva, and nods tightly.

Sinbad's hands are gentle as he lifts her. She doesn't like being picked up as if she were a child, but in this moment she can't make it on her own. She clings to him, burying her nose in the material covering his shoulder. The nubby texture of his vest isn't pleasant but the shelter from the onslaught on her senses is. She closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the sway of his steps, holding her breath and managing, miraculously, not to hurl on him as he bears her up the stairs and into the light.

"Just a moment," he says, cradling her against him. "Firouz is bringing you something to sit on."

She doesn't need something to sit on; the deck is just fine. All she wants is fresh, clean air. She can still smell smoke as the hatches ventilate the galley, but the early morning breeze helps immensely. The air isn't cool, exactly, but it's fresh, salt-clean, and it's moving. Wind blows lightly against her sweaty skin, and it helps. She takes a deeper, experimental breath. That's better. Not perfect—not even close. But better.

"Here." Firouz's voice sounds from behind her. "The best Rongar and I could do on short notice."

She reluctantly opens her eyes, squinting in the early sunlight as Sinbad carefully lowers her onto several sacks—part of their latest cargo. Inside is horsehair, she can tell from the feel and smell—a valuable commodity, if not a fancy one. The smell is neither strong nor offensive, at least not right now, and she gladly curls on her side amongst the rough sacking, closing her eyes again and breathing deeply, letting the clean smell of the sea ease a little of the nausea.

"Do you want water?" Sinbad asks. He's hovering again, but out of the stuffy atmosphere below deck she's better able to tolerate it. She shakes her head infinitesimally. She doesn't want anything except the moving air and some space.

"Leave her be for a while," Firouz says to his captain. "She should come around. I had no idea she was still suffering from the aconite. Ordinarily a poisoning that severe could take moons to fully resolve, or never at all, but since she had magical intervention I can't say with any certainty what to expect."

As the bout of nausea begins to recede, Maeve feels a very ironic and very unwelcome flash of gratitude towards Rumina. Unawares, by poisoning her, the witch gave her an excellent excuse to hide behind. Ordinarily, suspicions of pregnancy would rain down on a woman of her age stricken with inexplicable bouts of nausea, but now she has a pretext even Firouz will accept. If Rumina knew, she'd curse herself for providing it.

"Breakfast!" the man on mess duty calls, his voice carrying easily through the hatches.

"I'll stay with her," Sinbad says swiftly. "You go."

She manages to shake her head, her eyes squinting open to look at him. They still have to be so, so careful, and being alone together, even on deck with a man at the tiller, isn't a good idea. His hovering will piss off Rumina if she's watching, and they don't need any more of her meddling.

"There's no need to miss your breakfast if she doesn't mind. The sea's calm and Abdul is at the tiller. She's in no danger," Firouz says.

Maeve is glad the scientist agrees with her. Her belly is slowly calming, but right now she'd rather be alone. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to be touched. She just wants some quiet, and the only time that's possible on deck are midnights and mealtimes.

Sinbad sighs. He's not happy about this, but he knows as well as she does the danger they're in and how poorly he hides his feelings. His hand touches her hair once more, light and gentle. It's tolerable. "I'll save your rations for you."

In this moment she absolutely never wants to see, smell, or swallow food ever again, but she has no energy to argue with him. She lets her eyes close, her tense muscles beginning to relax as the nausea eases.

They leave her to the climbing sun and the gentle wind, which is all she wants. She concentrates on her breaths, growing gradually deeper as her belly calms. Rope creaks. Water rushes below. These sounds were once alien to her but they've become the comforting backdrop to her life. Wind dries the sweat on her skin, cooling her even as the sun rises higher, hotter, promising another scorching day. She welcomes it. It's better than the endless rain and gloom of her homeland. As a child she didn't really know what it felt like to be truly warm—summers were brief, the northern sun weak. She refuses to hate the southern heat, having known the lack of it.

Voices drift to her from below as the crew settles around the galley table. They're sleepy with the early morning, muted. She hears Sinbad say she's unwell, followed by a mutter of contempt from Doubar.

This rift with the first mate isn't something she foresaw when she agreed to help Sinbad fight this curse. Of course, she didn't foresee losing her own brother, either. Breathing softly, she wraps her arms around her torso and hugs herself. She's been at war with the world since she was born, fighting for her right to exist, to survive in an environment that tried very hard to thwart her. Right now she feels like she's fighting a very different sort of war, one she never meant to. She's fighting with Dermott. Doubar. Keely. It feels like she's losing her family, one by one. Whether this is part of Scratch's plan or merely a terrible byproduct she doesn't know, but it's killing her. And relationships, while strong, are also fragile. Once shattered, they're difficult to piece back together. She has to face the fact that, even after this fight with Scratch is over, these bonds may be wrecked past salvage. No matter how much she loves them. Needs them.

Dermott left in a fit of temper, raging that she chose Sinbad over him, that she no longer cared about freeing him from Rumina's curse. She expected him to return within a few days, sullen but remorseful for the hurtful things he said. They're siblings; they fight. They get over it. But that was two moons ago, and her brother has yet to come back. Each day the hope that he will dies a little more.

Doubar, the cheerful giant she took to almost immediately upon joining the Nomad's crew, is understandably upset that she says she will not bear Sinbad's child and therefore save his soul from Scratch. She gets it. His love for his brother comes first, and will always come first. But his bitter animosity still hurts, as does the ease with which he swallowed her story, if she's honest. Rongar didn't. Rongar knows perfectly well that she's with child. Whether he guesses the reason for the lie, she can't say, but she suspects so. He may not be a genius like Firouz, but he's extremely intelligent, very aware of what goes on around him, and he knows people in a way the scientist never will. Her lie didn't fool him.

But it fooled Doubar, and even though that's what she intended, she can admit to herself that it stings. She thought he knew her better than that. Doesn't he know she'd never back down with Sinbad's soul on the line?

Apparently not. And that hurts. But there's nothing she can do about it. She can't tell him the truth, and trying to make up with him without it will do no good. He thinks she betrayed Sinbad. She's a traitor as far as he's concerned. Whether that can be mended after Samhain, after the battle with Scratch, remains to be seen. Sinbad believes the birth of their child will soothe his brother's feelings, and they'll be able to start again. Maeve hugs herself, breathing slowly. She'd like to believe him, but she just isn't so sure. Doubar is a simple man, and generally a happy one. This struggle for his brother's soul has already pulled and twisted him, making him feel things he would not ordinarily feel, think things he would not ordinarily think. The birth of a child can heal any number of wounds—Maeve has witnessed that for herself—but she doesn't know that it can fix Doubar.

Or herself. She still doesn't know what to feel about being with child, the prospect of impending motherhood. Sinbad thinks she doesn't want children, which isn't precisely true. It's more complicated than that. She adores her nephews and nieces, the little monsters running wild on Breakwater. But this world is a cruel one, bloody and often merciless. She never wanted to subject an innocent soul to it.

She stares at the glittering expanse of ocean, a thin strip of land visible nearby. It's Crete, their next stop as they continue their search for Talia. She's also very unsure that she'll be any good as a mother. Keely had a mother until the massacre at Brí Leith claimed her. Wren had one, too. Long enough to remember. Long enough to learn. Maeve did not. She was raised by a well-meaning but clueless older brother and, for a time, by fair but largely emotionless scholars. Her only memory of her own mother is of her violent death at the hands of her father. This is not a legacy she wishes to hand down, not a cycle she wants to repeat. Despite the best of intentions, she's terrified that she will. She knows how to wrangle children; she had to learn quickly as Wren's brood grew and Keely added to it. But being a mother is more than that, and this deeper, more fundamental aspect of motherhood is what she fears she's lacking. Unless it will come with time, just as milk will come to feed her baby, she doesn't know if she can fix this lack. She doubts it's something she can learn from a book.

The door to the galley opens, discharging men onto the deck. Maeve pulls herself into a sitting position, testing her stomach's tolerance of each movement before she commits fully to it. She still doesn't feel great, but it's bearable. She hears Doubar relieve the man at the tiller, watches as Rongar and another man adjust the mainsail. They'll be landing on Crete today. Sinbad will put up a fuss about her leaving the ship, just as he did in Lefka two days after her poisoning, but it will feel good to have solid ground under her feet for a little while. Even if the reason is looking for Talia.

"Should you be up?" Her captain's voice sounds from behind her.

"I'm only halfway up," she says without turning, neatly sidestepping the question. If these bouts of sickness are going to continue, as she suspects they will, she has to find a way to deal with them. She can't just be incapacitated for however long it takes her belly to reconcile with her body's new tenant.

He plops down next to her on the sacks of horsehair. "Do you want to go back to bed?"

"No. I feel better up here." The smell below will still be too strong; she knows that without even trying.

He switches languages abruptly, something he's getting much better at doing. His syntax is still clumsy, his declensions atrocious, and at times he's difficult to follow, but his vocabulary has improved substantially. "I worry when you don't come to me. At night, I mean. But I never want to disturb you. I want it to be your choice."

His concern can often feel stifling, but in this instance it warms her. She smiles in spite of herself. It's true, he's never barged into her cabin at night; it's always the other way around. His captain's quarters are nicer, and he has a bigger bunk that can easily hold two adult bodies. She's not sure her little bunk could, but at least it's better than the hammocks the rest of the crew use. She's lucky in that respect—she and Dim-Dim were given the use of the tiny passenger cabin when they first boarded the Nomad, and after her master disappeared Sinbad never asked her to vacate it. She moved from the floor to the vacant bed, which is more comfortable, but she'd far rather have her master back and sleep on wooden planks for the rest of her days.

Sinbad bends one knee, drawing it close to his chest. His hands move; he wants to touch her, but knows he can't. She knows his tics so well by now, but she's a little afraid a spying Rumina might, too. "I'm sorry," she says, and she is, for so much. "I've been falling asleep when I shouldn't. I didn't mean to worry you." He worries too much, yes, but she doesn't need to make it worse.

"When you should," he corrects gently. "It's not right of me to expect you to work all day, stay up most of the night, and carry a child on top of everything else. Especially not when you were just poisoned."

When he puts it like that, it's hard to argue with him. Still, "That stunt on Cyprus is in the past. You need to get over it."

"How can I when you're still sick?"

"I'm not sick," she says, doing her best not to snap at him. "I'm pregnant. Rumina didn't do this, you did."

His mouth snaps shut. He looks at her cautiously, weighing his response. She's a little amused. She's not angry, which he seems to be afraid of. She's more or less resigned to not feeling particularly well for the foreseeable future. She just needs to figure out how to deal with it. Eventually the poisoning excuse is going to wear thin.

"What can I do?" he asks finally, which is a fairly diplomatic and therefore safe reply. She considers.

"I don't know," she says honestly. Keely could help, but she refuses to ask. This is an inconvenience, not a disaster. She can handle it without her sister. "Ginger might help. Or limes. Maybe." She wipes her palm across her forehead, clearing the little tendrils of hair that stick to her skin.

"I won't buy anything for you in a market right now, but I'll do my best. If I can get them for you, I will. What else?"

She shrugs. She doesn't entirely know. Keely uses magic. Maeve can look in the books Dim-Dim left her, but she's been through them all multiple times and she doesn't remember any spells that would be even remotely useful. "Just keeping away from those smells for now, I guess. I think I'll have to stop eating with the crew for a while."

While at sea they live according to a fairly strict schedule, working and eating and resting at set times, to ensure they reach their destination as quickly and safely as possible. Deviation on most ships is not tolerated, and Maeve knows this, but most ships don't have pregnant women aboard.

"You do what you have to do," Sinbad says without hesitation. "You have my full permission, if that's what you're asking. Sleep when you need to. Eat when you need to. I'd take you off duty completely, but you'd kill me."

Damn right she would. She's always pulled her own weight, and she refuses to let a baby change that. She's not a concubine and she will not be kept like one.

"Doubar won't like it," she says, glancing behind her at the man at the tiller.

"Doubar doesn't like anything right now, so trying to appease him is pointless."

This is undeniably true, but Maeve hates doing something that she knows will aggravate him all the same. She doesn't see how she has much choice, though. She needs to rise early and be up on deck before the cook starts breakfast to escape being trapped like she was this morning, and she'll have to learn to accommodate whatever else sets her off as she encounters it. She did not grow up at the knee of older women and she has no real idea how long this sickness might last. Not straight through to Samhain, she hopes.

"I'm sorry, _mo chailín_," Sinbad says softly, drawing her attention back to the present.

"For what? I told you before, this is life. I just have to learn to deal with it." She may gripe about him doing this to her, but in truth the fault is Scratch's. Rumina's. Not his. And she was a very enthusiastic participant in the act of begetting, so she's as much to blame as he is. She gathers her feet under her and rises. Her head spins slightly, but she's upright. She's fine.

Sinbad stands an instant after she does. She can feel his worried gaze, how his eyes linger on her even though his hands can't. For the first time, she's forced to wonder whether they're really fooling anyone besides Doubar. Rumina is evil, but she's not stupid. Neither is Scratch.

But Maeve is still alive, and ultimately that's her reassurance that this plan, however desperate, is working. She lives. Her child lives. For one more day, one more notch in the wall. If Rumina really did suspect, they'd all be dead.

Slowly she bends, picking up the rough sacks of horsehair, bulky but light.

"I can do that," Sinbad offers, but she shakes her head.

"I'm fine now." Until the next time, whenever that will be. "Go on. It's okay."

He doesn't seem entirely convinced, as he never is these days, but he climbs the aft stairs with only a little sullen reluctance. Maeve opens the door and steps down into the galley, cautious in case her stomach can't handle it.

The dark air is close and stuffy, but no worse than usual. She'll live. She heads to the hold to put the sacks back where they belong. She's effectively blind after the bright morning above deck and she blinks as she walks, bumping softly against the wall as the ship rocks and bobs. She's never really been seasick before and she isn't now, but the movement of the ship definitely didn't help when her belly was already in misery.

She opens the door to the cargo hold and tosses in the sacks, heedless of where they land. They're soft; they won't hurt anything. The first one falls with almost no sound. The second elicits a small grunt, and she's pretty sure horsehair doesn't grunt.

Her first instinct is to grab for her sword, which she isn't wearing—it's on the rack with the others. Instead of reaching for the knife hidden in her boot she opens her hand, palm up, and concentrates. A ball of fire appears, cradled in her grasp, warm and bright and welcoming. It illuminates the packed storeroom.

Maeve isn't sure exactly what she expects to see. A monster or dangerous creature of some sort, perhaps—maybe that wouldn't be her first guess on another ship, but this is the Nomad. She braces for a fight, blinking in the sudden flare of firelight.

"Oh, it's you." Hazel eyes blink back at her, and a figure unfolds from the shadows behind a stack of barrels. "When that scientist of yours burst in earlier he woke me up. I've been locked in for days! I've got a bone to pick with your captain for that."

Not a monster. Not quite. "Talia," Maeve says, voice flat. She should be surprised, she guesses, but she isn't. "Should I even ask why you're playing stowaway?"

"You should," the pirate says with a broad grin, slapping her on the shoulder as if they're old friends, which they manifestly are not. "It's a great story. Where's Sinbad? He'll want to hear it, too." She pushes past her into the hallway.

Maeve lets the fire in her hand dissipate. Sinbad wouldn't be happy if she burned a hole in his ship lobbing it at Talia. She closes the door of the hold and, full of misgiving, follows the pirate back into the sunlight.

Her feelings regarding Talia are complicated, and even though they've been searching for her for some time, seeing her walking the Nomad so casually is jarring. Maeve frowns. She doesn't trust the Black Rose, and never has. She was proven right during their last encounter, which the rest of the crew laughed off as ultimately harmless. Maeve doesn't feel the same. They managed to accomplish their goal of freeing the unwitting parishioners from the hold of the deceitful priests of Kratos, but they almost didn't, thanks to Talia. And Sinbad almost became breakfast for a monster, besides. Maeve doesn't consider that harmless.

But the rest of the crew seems to, and Doubar wants her around, so Maeve will hold her tongue. For now. Until she can't anymore. It's true that having another woman around will help keep Rumina's attention off of her, but she has no idea what sort of trouble Talia might cause in the meantime. In general, and also with Sinbad.

"Sinbad, you old sea dog! Where have you been keeping yourself?" Talia hollers, cupping her hands around her eyes as she emerges into the glare.

"Talia!" Doubar booms, joyful for the first time in...a long time. Maeve's heart hurts as she watches the big man hustle down the steps, lifting the pirate off her feet with the force of his greeting.

Sinbad follows Doubar, his feet a little slower, and he touches the small of Maeve's back gently as he comes to a halt beside her, as if offering reassurance. She's grateful, despite the forbidden touch. What will happen now that Talia's on board, she doesn't know, but she knows full well that she won't like it. Sinbad hasn't outright admitted to a prior physical relationship with the pirate, but he doesn't have to. Their body language makes it plain—the easy way they interact, the enthusiastic kiss Talia greeted him with the last time they met. It shouldn't have been a problem back then, as he was not Maeve's to be jealous of, but it was anyway, and remains so now. It's not the only reason she dislikes Talia, but it's certainly one of them. She's glad of his silent reassurance now. What he plans to do with Talia, what he plans to ask of her, Maeve doesn't know. That's his mess to figure out. All she knows is that he's hers, and she's not willing to share.

"Where did the Black Rose sprout from?" he asks, torn between wariness and amusement.

Maeve holds her hands up, refusing to take the blame. "I hit her with a sack. That's all I know."

Doubar's crushing the little pirate with the strength of his greeting. "Do you have any idea how long we've been looking for you?" he demands.

"First I've heard of it," she groans. "Put me down, tubby, you're crushing my lungs." She laughs as he releases her.

"You want to tell me what you're doing making an appearance on my ship just now?" Sinbad asks. "We're days out of Lefka. Or have you been stowed away longer?"

"Nah, just since then." Talia moves, arms reaching for him in greeting. She's swift, but he's prepared and seems to feel as Maeve does. He evades her embrace gracefully and she ends up with a handshake instead, which puzzles her for a moment, but she shakes it off. "I'd have come out sooner, but apparently you keep your hold locked from the outside."

"It's standard procedure on any ship," Firouz protests. "Sinbad and I both keep a key."

"Do you also keep food? I've been living on the apricots in your hold for days."

These are luckily not cargo, which would be docked from their pay, but some of the supplies from Antoine. Maeve doesn't particularly like Breakwater supplying the Nomad, but this agreement is between Sinbad and Antoine. Not her. She's got enough to worry about without antagonizing Ant, too, and she has no better solution to offer. Not after Rumina's threat to keep poisoning them, Maeve specifically. Arguing would be of little use, anyway. Sinbad's taking that threat very seriously. He barely allowed her off the ship at Lefka and he wouldn't let her consume anything, not even a drink of water. Especially not the water. One the one hand, Maeve can't help but feel flattered by this new protectiveness. On the other, it's driving her crazy.

"Tell me what you were doing in my hold first," Sinbad says now. He's tired and anxious, just as she is. Just as they all are, to an extent. Her men may not be bearing the burden of a child, but they're carrying the burden of this curse, the threat that in a matter of moons they could lose Sinbad forever. No one is happy. They haven't been for a long time.

"Let the girl eat," Doubar protests. "Look at her, she's famished."

"Practically speaking, she's not," Firouz cuts in, "though I shudder to think what days of nothing but apricots does to a stomach."

Talia reaches out, ruffling his curly hair. He pulls back, warring between surprise and affront. "Don't worry about me, Mr. Genius. I have a belly of steel."

"Nice to hear someone does," Doubar mutters, casting an irritable look in Maeve's direction.

Sinbad's mouth opens to snap, once more, at his brother, though it does no good. Maeve touches his sleeve lightly, and for the moment he desists. She's tired of hearing the brothers bicker. The festering animosity between them breaks her heart even more than Doubar's attacks on her, and she needs it to stop. This ship feels like one of Firouz's exploding sticks, and adding Talia to the mix might just be the fuse that causes it to light. Maeve is not looking forward to it. Even now they're lined up as if on opposing sides of a battle, she and Sinbad, Talia and Doubar. Firouz and Rongar are neutral territory, at least for now.

"Where's your ship?" Firouz asks. "Didn't you have one?"

"Confiscated," Talia says with a terrible grimace that turns her sharp face ugly for a moment. "Those bastards in Attalia had a real problem with me for some reason."

"Because of your fortune-telling scam, maybe? That's what we heard," Maeve can't resist saying. She dislikes Talia because the pirate wants Sinbad, yes, but also because she can't be trusted. Maeve will lie when she has to, when circumstances force her. Her current trouble with Doubar is proof of that. But it doesn't come naturally, and she hates how it makes her feel. She'll never be able to understand people who do it easily, willingly, as Talia does.

"Nah." Talia shakes her head, though she doesn't actually deny the accusation. "Something about moorage fees and taxes. I tried to explain, I really did. How can I be expected to pay taxes on income if I can't exactly declare how I got it?" She snorts in disgust. "The whole setup's a scam, I'm telling you. In my next life I'm coming back as a politician. That's where the real money is." She nods sagely.

Oh, good gods. Maeve closes her eyes. Between her rebelling stomach and now Talia, this is going to be a very, very long voyage.

"So you skipped out of Attalia, presumably as a stowaway, and ended up on Cyprus, in the city of Lefka?" Sinbad prompts.

"Yep. Couldn't make any money, not after the authorities were onto me. And I can't get my ship out of impound without it. Believe me, I tried. I snuck back on board one night and was going to high-tail it out of there by my lonesome, but some guards tossed me overboard. And laughed." Her face twists. "I'll have the last laugh on them, see if I don't. I'm not sure how. But I will."

"And you stowed away on the Nomad instead of just coming to me because…?" Sinbad prompts. He seems a little more amused now. Maybe because Talia got what she firmly deserved. Or maybe just at the thought of her being summarily pitched into the harbor.

"I didn't know it was you at first," Talia replies easily. "I recognized the ship, but I mean, I see a lot of ships. No one was on board except some guy dozing on watch. I hid in the hold, but then I got locked in."

Whoever was on watch that day won't be employed after reaching Crete; Maeve doesn't even have to ask. This time it was only Talia, but anyone could have snuck aboard. Sinbad isn't in the mood for that sort of mistake right now.

"So, as I said before, food?" Talia looks at the captain expectantly.

Maeve herself has to eat, and she doesn't really want Talia or anyone else preparing food right now. If she's going to experiment with what her stomach will handle, she wants to do it herself. So, though she's not thrilled with the idea of spending any more time with Talia than she has to, she beckons to the pirate. "Come on," she says, feeling both very tired and very resigned. "I didn't eat breakfast either. I'll feed you."

Talia hesitates. "Can you cook?" she asks, sounding a little suspicious.

"No. Can you?"

"No." The pirate seems to take this cheerfully enough. "Lead on, then."

"Maeve…" Sinbad shifts beside her, looking doubtful.

"It's fine. I'm not going to poison her." She has to try to eat at some point and she'd rather be in charge of the process than allow someone else to do it.

The offhand mention of poison doesn't please Sinbad; she can see the flash of pain in his eyes. She loves him, but this is getting old. He needs to move on. She has. She understands the need for caution going forward, but what he's doing now isn't caution, it's dwelling, and dwelling on the past won't change the present or fix the future. She wishes she could slap some sense into him. Or kiss it there, either way. But she can't, so instead she heads down into the galley, Talia trailing hopefully behind.

"So, where are we headed?" the pirate asks, dropping onto a bench. "I tried to listen in when I heard voices, but never heard anything interesting."

Maeve inspects their supplies. Sinbad did as he said he would and left her a bowl of gruel that's now congealed into a solid mass. She knows she won't be able to handle the smell from the barrel of pickled fish so she doesn't even consider opening it. She dips up water and weak ale, passing a portion to Talia, and puts a raisin in her mouth as an experiment. The seeds crunch as she bites down; her stomach doesn't protest the small burst of sweetness.

"We're almost to Crete, to drop off the cargo you've been hiding in. And to look for you." Maeve slices bread and adds golden-green olive oil thick with crushed garlic and rosemary. Antoine tried supplying her with butter, knowing she misses it, but it went rancid almost instantly in the Mediterranean heat. The spell she has to keep milk sweet doesn't, she learned, work on butter. The smell of the garlic and herbs is too strong, her belly lurching in warning, and she passes that plate to Talia, keeping gruel for herself.

"I'm touched," Talia says, gulping ale, "but why were you looking for me? Sinbad tends to let the wind decide when it's time to catch up with old friends."

Maeve adds a handful of raisins to her bowl and sits opposite the piratess. She has no idea how much Sinbad wants to tell Talia, what he'll do with her now that she's here. Last she asked, he hadn't quite figured that out. "We ran into a little trouble with a demon," she says, opting for deliberate ambiguity. And understatement.

"Oh, whoa. Hey. Demons are not my thing. Diamonds, yes. Demons, no." Talia looks up from her mug, alarmed.

Maeve snorts lightly and pokes at the mess in her bowl with her wooden spoon. She reheats it with a touch, hoping that might make it slightly more palatable.

"What are you doing with this weird western bread?" Talia asks, squinting at the plate in front of her. "I mean, no offense. I know you're Celt and all. If that hair didn't scream it, those clothes would. You ever think about dressing more...I don't know, practical?" She peers at Maeve's bowl. "And what's that? It's not barley."

"Oats. It's a long story." And one she has no intention of getting into right now. The rest of the crew have accepted that unnamed people with some tie to Maeve are providing supplies until the immediate danger from Rumina has passed. Antoine has done his best to keep their diet the same, with some additions like fresh bread that Maeve secretly welcomes, but some substitutions were necessary. The crew is curious, Maeve knows, but after her last big fight with Doubar they know better than to pry. Talia does not.

"Did you recently do a favor for some northern king or something?" Talia begins to eat despite her objections.

"No." Maeve takes a cautious bite. It's gluey and bland and thoroughly unobjectionable. "We're being supplied by...some friends of mine. Just for a while. It's complicated."

"Didn't know you had any," Talia says with her mouth full.

Maeve isn't sure whether she's meant to take insult at that. She frowns and says nothing. Keeping the peace for as long as possible is important. At least they'll be landing on Crete later today. And if all else fails, she has her own cabin, tiny closet that it is. Sinbad has given her permission to do what she needs to do, and she can shut herself behind her door alone for a while if she has to.

"Hey," Talia continues, "what about those clothes? Why do you dress like that? Do you like looking like a barbarian?"

"Yes," Maeve says evenly. She is what she is, and she has no desire to pretend otherwise.

"Oh." Talia's hazel eyes rise from her food, considering her from across the table. Maeve wonders what she sees. "I just mean, you live on a ship with a bunch of hot-blooded men. Aren't they all looking up your skirts every time the wind gusts? Wouldn't trousers be more practical?"

"I don't care what they look at; I've never asked. If anyone has an issue with me, that's their problem, not mine. Sinbad doesn't, and since he's the captain his opinion is the only one that matters." She's always felt eyes on her, no matter where she goes. It's part of being beautiful, and part of being foreign. Dressing differently would not change that, not really.

"Don't get me wrong, you're a pretty thing." Talia grins. "I bet you'd have all the men in port panting after you if you were a little nicer to them."

"And I bet you'd have the men in port panting after you if you didn't pick all their pockets." Maeve drinks her water cautiously, but at least for now her stomach seems to accept it.

Talia laughs delightedly. She's in a fabulous mood. Maeve is not. "How do you think I get close enough to pick them?" She pauses, considering. "Hey, d'you think Sinbad would loan me what I need to get my ship back? You know, between friends."

Probably, if he has it. Even though he must know he'll never get that "loan" back again. But Maeve has no idea how much money they're talking. "Maybe," she allows.

"We could maybe strike a deal," Talia says thoughtfully, poking at the crumbs on her plate. "You said you were looking for me. What's up with the demon?"

"He's after Sinbad's soul."

"Figures." Talia licks her fingers. "I've never eaten bread aboard ship before."

"Where would you bake it?" Sailors necessarily restrict their cooking to whatever uses the least amount of space, water, and fuel. Even most flatbreads require an oven, which they do not possess. They could conceivably make _roti_, but no one wants to grind the grain.

Talia doesn't answer. "There had to be a demon involved, huh? He couldn't come looking for me just because he missed me?"

"Who said he missed you?" Maeve's low-grade irritation turns sullen. This is not a conversation she wants to continue.

Talia smiles. "He missed me, sweetie. They all do." She drinks her ale. "What's the matter? Did he kiss you? Is that why you're upset?"

Maeve presses her teeth together to prevent her from saying anything she'll later regret. It's not a skill she's ever been particularly good at, but she's trying.

"Look, I'm just being honest. Your captain's one handsome man, he has one hell of a reputation with the ladies, and he deserves every last hushed whisper. It doesn't bother me. A man like that can't be tied down, can't be expected to keep to one or two women exclusively. I pity the girl who chooses to try." She stretches her legs out under the table. "You're smarter than that, aren't you? Smart enough to know you're not any different from the rest."

Maeve breathes slowly, so deep that she swears she can still smell pickled fish despite the closed barrel. She's good at reading people, but she admits she finds Talia a challenge. Is she being deliberately cruel or just obtuse? She takes a moment before she responds, reminding herself that the pirate has no idea what's happened to them since they last met. And no one knows Sinbad is hers, only herself and her captain. Talia's not trying to wound her, Maeve tells herself. She's just clueless, and likes to run her mouth.

Whatever Sinbad feels for Talia, Maeve doesn't know. She never asked. The first time Talia resurfaced in their lives, she didn't feel entitled to pry. He wasn't hers, and she was still in denial that she wanted him to be. She'd be perfectly content to put it in the past, as she keeps telling Sinbad to do with her poisoning. But Talia is back, stirring the pot, and Maeve doesn't know how long she can keep quiet. Not speaking her mind is not something she's good at.

At the same time, she understands why Sinbad wants Talia around. He knows the tension aboard his ship is near unbearable already and he's stated his misgivings about searching for Talia more than once. He knows this is not a good idea, but he's doing it anyway to keep the pressure and danger of Rumina's scrutiny off Maeve. Antoine suggested keeping other women around, to keep Scratch and Rumina guessing. Keely even passed her own pregnancy off as Sinbad's doing, which was brilliant, since she's safe at Breakwater where Scratch can't touch her. Talia is tough. She's not some sweet little flower—she's the Black Rose. They need a woman like her to act as a decoy.

"You'll have to ask Sinbad about whether he missed you and what it is he wants," Maeve says, rising from the table. She can contain herself. For now. "I have to get back on duty."

* * *

Sinbad curses himself for a fool. He's been wrapped up in worry over Maeve—her health, her safety, especially after her poisoning—and he didn't take the time he should have to really plan this ruse with Talia. Now he's left scrambling. It's not a position he likes to put himself in and he's not in a good mood as they approach Crete.

Doubar, on the other hand, is jubilant. He breaks out in song several times after Maeve and Talia disappear below, little ripples of verses dropped into the wind as he works. He hasn't done this since learning what the sinister mark on Sinbad's chest means.

Sinbad gets it. His brother thinks the answer to all their problems has suddenly appeared, in the person of an amoral, troublesome piratess. She's an old friend, something of an old flame, and Doubar believes she's the one to save Sinbad's soul from Scratch. But Sinbad has no intention of sleeping with Talia, as Doubar assumes. Maeve is the only woman he wants, and he knows without asking that she's not willing to share him. In his world this is highly unusual—men are not expected to be monogamous. In Maeve's world things seem to work a little differently. According to Antoine and Niall, emotional monogamy is expected from both members of a bonded pair, though not necessarily physical monogamy. He's not clear on the reason for the distinction, but it doesn't matter. Maeve is a jealous creature when the sentiment takes her, and she does not get along well with Talia. Keeping clear of that entanglement is best for everyone involved.

But he needs someone like Talia around, a female of childbearing age to act as a decoy, diverting Rumina and Scratch's attention. He's grateful to Keely for taunting the witch with her own pregnancy, but one vicious encounter won't divert Rumina's attention for long. He needs something bigger. Talia could potentially provide that.

And that in itself would be difficult enough to explain to her, but on top of it all, Doubar expects a nephew out of her. He can't talk to her in an obscure language Rumina and Scratch won't understand, and he can't take her to Breakwater so he can explain in safety. He's stuck, and he's not yet sure how to wiggle his way out of this one. He feels blocked in no matter which way he turns.

"One down," Doubar says gleefully, slouching beside him as Sinbad mans the tiller. "Or two, if you count that green woman. Should we try for Elise next? Or Fallon?"

Sinbad holds back a weary groan. "Just how many women do you think this ship can handle?" One is enough for him.

"Why so reluctant? Not feeling up for the job?" Doubar chortles, delighted with his dirty joke.

Sinbad doesn't think it's funny. "Neither my ship nor I would survive what you're suggesting."

Doubar leans back against the railing. "In all seriousness, it isn't a bad idea to hedge your bets. Have a backup. Or three." He eyes him speculatively. "Rumina seems occupied with Maeve even though the witch knows she won't help you, so I guess the lass at least has some use as a diversion. Now you need one for Scratch's attention as well."

Sinbad has no idea whether Maeve might get along with the Adventurers better than she does with Talia, but in this particular circumstance the prospects aren't good. She's with child and she deserves as much calm as he can give her, not more people to worry about. "Absolutely not. You realize these are actual people, right? Our friends. Not just scarecrows. Or broodmares." He wants to come out the other side of this war with an intact soul, a safe sorceress, and a healthy child. One. Not a flock.

Doubar frowns at him. "Why do I have to keep reminding you that your soul's at stake?" he says sourly. "It's like you're not taking this seriously at all."

"I am. Very seriously." He feels like he's aged years in the past few weeks, all from worry. "But mine isn't the only life in danger. Maeve's is. Talia's too, now that she's here. Any other woman near me. Maeve knows the danger and chooses to stay, but Talia is innocent. Elise and Fallon are innocent. Any child I might father is innocent. I refuse to endanger any more lives than I have to."

"Talia's tough," Doubar says, dismissing this argument. "A little danger won't stop her. And what about that green woman? Haven't seen her before or since. Not the prettiest thing, or the nicest. But she wasn't afraid of Rumina."

"She won't be around. She and Maeve are at odds." And she doesn't belong on his ship anyway. She has a _céile_ and two babies to protect in addition to the one in her belly. She needs to stay safe, far away from here, even after she and her sister make up.

"Figures."

"Stop. Nothing good will come of talking about Maeve like that, so stop."

"I'm just saying. You don't want Talia around because she and Maeve don't get along. The girl who's actually pregnant isn't around because she and Maeve are fighting. You don't want to go find Elise or Fallon because you're afraid of Maeve's reaction. How do you not see the pattern here?"

"I see your meaning well enough. But you don't know the whole story, so I'm telling you again to stop." Maeve's reasons for disliking Talia are valid—not the jealousy, for he has no intention of touching the pirate, but the rest of it. Talia can't be trusted, and Maeve doesn't trust easily to begin with. Even Doubar can't deny that. And the spat with Keely is none of their business. She's pricklier than Maeve and they fight habitually; Antoine says so and Sinbad's seen it for himself. They'll get over it when they get over it.

Yes, Maeve is difficult at times. She can be a pain in the ass, and she admits it. But he's also seen her capability for deep love and affection. So has Doubar, as unwilling as he is right now to remember.

"That girl causes trouble wherever she goes. She can't get along with any other women. I don't need to know the whole story to see that."

She can so get along with other women. She meshes better with men, exists more comfortably in a man's world, and that's undeniable. But she loves her sisters and her little nieces dearly, and she's given friendship and compassion to other women, too. Cairpra. Little Serendib. He could name more, but pointing this out to Doubar won't change his brother's mind when he's being so obnoxiously bullheaded. "Enough," he says instead. "Maeve is a member of this crew and she's not going anywhere. And we are not going in search of Elise or Fallon. Or any other women you can name."

"With all this constant stonewalling I'm beginning to feel like you _want_ Scratch to take your soul. What's going on with you?" Doubar peers at him, his blue-gray gaze intent. "I know you like being a hero, but that doesn't mean you need to be a martyr, too."

"I have no intention of becoming one." He's going to win this war. Doubar's plan sounds wise in theory—right now, Sinbad is staking everything he has on one single bet. But that bet is Maeve. She will not let him down. "I intend to fight. To win. And then to be the very best father I can be. Martyrs don't make good fathers."

"You talk about being a father, but you're two moons down out of eight. That's a quarter of your time gone, and what do you have to show for it?"

A woman he adores, strong but visibly unwell as her body adjusts to her first pregnancy, but he can't tell his brother that. He rubs his face, searching for a way to appease Doubar without saying too much. He's tired, and though he's usually good at thinking on the spot, he honestly can't find the words. He's under too much strain, too much pressure. This curse is on his soul, and he's the captain of his ship. It all comes down to him.

A deafening bang sounds from below.

The Nomad shudders in the water. Without conscious thought, Sinbad's body reacts. He abandons the tiller, diving for the door. Maeve is on deck, thank the gods, with Rongar near the bow. They drop the rope in their hands and follow him.

Black smoke floods from the door when he yanks it open. He coughs and turns his head aside. He knows that caustic smell, though it usually doesn't cause such thick, choking smoke.

"Stay up here," he snaps when Maeve reaches him. She's not going down into that smoke, no matter what she says. He pulls one side of his shirt up over his nose and mouth and nods at Rongar. He inches cautiously down the steps, the Moor at his back.

He can hear the choking coughs of at least two people, one of them female. He follows the sound to Talia, banging his hip on the galley table, his shin on a bench. "Where are you?" he demands, listening to the sound of her coughs, and begins to hack himself as he breathes in the thick, choking cloud.

"Here," she says through the black smoke. A hand touches his knee; she hooks her fingers in his _hijam_ and hauls herself to her feet. She must have ducked under the table when the explosion went off, which was probably the wisest thing she could have done, considering. He moves her blindly behind him, passing her into Rongar's grip and thus to the stairs so she can escape up top.

"Firouz!" Sinbad calls, and convulses in a coughing fit. He's very familiar with the sulfurous smell of this smoke and he has a sinking suspicion he knows what—and who—caused it. He doesn't have the luxury of being furious, however, until he knows his scientist is unharmed. He makes his way step by blind step down the galley, cautious lest he tread on someone fallen to the floor.

He collides solidly with Firouz somewhere near his own door. Relief fills him, and he grabs the inventor's baggy shirt in a tight fist so he doesn't lose him in the smoke. He hauls him toward the door. Firouz's choking, coughing breaths are labored but he's upright and moving under his own power. He follows Sinbad's pull readily and together they make their way above deck.

Sinbad drops the fold of shirt he held over his mouth, coughing freely in the clearer air. His eyes smart and water; he blinks the smoke from them. It's a terrifying sight for a sailor at sea: thick black smoke spewing from the doorway and the hatches on deck. He swiftly searches the faces watching him, finding everyone thankfully accounted for. "Is there a fire?" he demands of Firouz.

The man is doubled over, hands on his knees as he coughs, struggling for a good breath. "WHAT?" he bellows.

"Did you cause a fire?" Sinbad repeats his demand, impatient with the struggling scientist. If so, they need to know now, while it's still small enough to fight.

"I'M SORRY," Firouz bellows between coughs. He tugs at one ear. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU. IS THERE A BELL RINGING?"

"I SAID—" Sinbad abandons the attempt to roar at his deafened scientist. He looks to Rongar, who shrugs helplessly.

"Honestly," Maeve snaps, striding for the door.

"Don't. That's an order."

She glares. "Like I've never disobeyed one of those before. You want your ship to burn, or not?"

He shouldn't touch her and she hates being restrained, but he finds his hand wrapping around her arm anyway, just above her elbow. Her arm is warm and hard with muscle under her sleeve. He's had enough of this day and it isn't even noontide yet. "Fix it from out here."

Her mouth thins and her chin lifts. For a long moment he wonders if she's going to deliberately flout his order. She has before, but not for a long time. Not since they truly became friends.

She inhales a very long, slow breath. He can see the barely-restrained anger in her tight throat, her tense shoulders. He knows better than to bark at her, grab at her, and he'll pay for it later, but right now he doesn't have time to worry about that.

Her free hand rises, palm up and open in front of her. She says a short sentence in a language he doesn't understand and closes her fingers tightly over her palm.

The smoke doesn't disappear, but it lessens immediately. Sinbad exhales a relieved burst of air and releases her. He's sorry, truly he is, and he'll make it up to her tonight, after everyone else is asleep. But a fire aboard ship is an emergency that can't wait, and he needs her to stay safe. "You stay," he says firmly. He does not want her down in that choking smoke, especially after how unwell she felt this morning. Besides, after an explosion like that the structure of the ship may no longer be sound. If the deck collapses or the hull gives way, he will not have her trapped below.

Her eyes flash fire, but for once—for now—she doesn't argue.

"I need to survey the damage. See if you can get an explanation from Firouz." He nods at the coughing scientist. "Talia, did you see what happened?"

"Nah. I was at the table and then suddenly BOOM." She looks at Firouz appreciatively. "I had no idea he could do that."

"If he's ruined Dim-Dim's books…" Maeve's voice trails off dangerously. She doesn't have to elaborate; Sinbad gets it. Those books are precious objects, and moreso to her, belonging as they do to her master.

"_If_ he has, we'll deal with it then." Sinbad beckons to Rongar and Doubar and starts down the stairs again.

The open door and hatches have helped vent the galley but the smoke still stings Sinbad's eyes as he descends. He surveys the damage as the smoke clears. The galley is more or less intact, but the first cabin on the left, the one Firouz uses for his puttering when they don't have passengers, is destroyed. The interior wall no longer exists, and the exterior planking is black and smoking. Maeve was able to extinguish the fire, thank the gods, and he can't see any visible leaks, but he's glad they're almost to Crete. He needs to reinforce that area as soon as possible, definitely before trusting their lives to it again.

Shattered, smoking bits of inventions litter the floor and crunch underfoot, along with splinters and larger chunks of wood. But Sinbad is relieved as he surveys the damage; none of it seems to be structural. The beams and joists remain sturdy, and he can't see any dangerous cracks. Most of his worry ebbs as he and his men return topside.

"I'M SO SORRY, SINBAD!" Firouz bellows from his seat on a barrel, Maeve and Talia flanking either side. "I WAS EXPERIMENTING WITH RATIOS IN MY BLASTING POWDER. APPARENTLY THE ADDITION OF SALTPETER MAKES IT DECIDEDLY MORE REACTIVE. I KNOCKED A WEIGHT OVER, ONTO A PORTION, AND…"

"Boom," Talia finishes.

"Boom," Doubar agrees. "And, unfortunately, that _boom_ blew up your cabin."

It did. The ship was built with two tiny passenger cabins. Maeve has one and Firouz has now blown up the other. Sinbad swears under his breath. "Aye," he agrees, damning Firouz's timing. "Talia, you'll have to bunk with Maeve for now."

Both women immediately protest this plan.

"Whoa. Hang on there, big boy. I'm the Black Rose of Oman. I don't do roomies."

Maeve's delicate eyebrows lower like thunderclouds. "The Black Rose can go back in the hold."

"It's full of rats," Talia objects.

"It is not; Sinbad runs a clean ship."

He tries, mostly. As well as he can without a cat, which he can't employ because Doubar thinks they're creepy and Maeve says Dermott and a cat would fight. "Enough," he says firmly, cutting them both off. "It's just for tonight. Unless you have the coin to take shelter in town, Talia."

Her silence tells him the answer to this.

"We'll be in port by late afternoon. We can take stock of what we need for repairs and decide how to move forward after that." He's using his best captain's voice, hoping nobody chooses to argue with it. He needs everyone to just let him captain for a while.

Maeve doesn't like this decision any more than she liked him ordering her to remain on deck; he can tell how unhappy she is by the pace of her breath, the tilt of her dangerous mouth, though she doesn't actually say anything. What can she say? She knows they need Talia.

But Firouz's accidental explosion has caused another headache for Sinbad—a smaller one, he acknowledges, but one that still makes him grumpy as hell. If Maeve's bunking with Talia, she can't come to him tonight. Or any night, for however long this setup lasts. It's too dangerous. Talia would notice her sneaking out, no matter how quiet she tried to be.

Sinbad tries not to be angry. To look on the bright side. They're not on fire. They're not sinking. They'll be in port before nightfall. No one was hurt, except for Firouz's ears. He watches as Maeve hauls a bucket of seawater up and Rongar offers the scientist a piece of rag that doesn't look too dirty so he can clean off the remnants of black powder coating him.

"Is he going to be deaf permanently?" he asks as his sorceress holds the bucket for Firouz.

"How should I know?" she snaps. Yeah, she's still mad at him. "I accidentally set fire to things. I don't blow them up."

"You do both," Doubar mutters behind them.

Talia squeezes his arm. "Never a dull moment, eh, Sinbad?"


	22. Chapter 22

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M (language, sex, violence)  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

They reach the city of Zakros on the isle of Crete before sunset, with no further surprises, for which Sinbad is grateful. A stowaway Talia, deaf Firouz, and blown-up galley is enough for one day. He oversees the unloading of their cargo, wishing he could order Maeve off this duty, but she's already silently fuming and won't stand further coddling. He knows he's pushing her, as well as drawing attention they do not need, but he can't help it. She's had too many close calls lately and he needs them to stop. She's correct when she says that most pregnant women don't have the luxury of easing their workloads, but most pregnant women aren't carrying the weight of three souls at once, either. Unborn babies are fragile things, and if she loses this one it will mean disaster for them all. They're two moons down out of eight, just as Doubar said. Maeve could potentially conceive again if she miscarries, but unless timed perfectly with another _teas_ their odds aren't great. He has to make sure they won't need such an act of desperation.

But his sorceress is beyond stubborn, and as much as he hates it she's also right. Showing her too much preferential treatment will tip off Rumina and Scratch no matter how many other women he floods his ship with. So he's stuck. He wants to wrap her in layers and layers of protective material, set her on silk cushions and keep all toil and worry from her until this child's born, but he can't. Doing so would seal their doom, and she won't stand for it besides. She's not that kind of girl. She's never been that kind of girl. He knew that going in. He just didn't know how difficult it would be to quell his protective instincts.

"What's next, boys?" Talia lifts her arms and stretches her back until her spine audibly pops. "Drinks, I hope."

Full dark has fallen and usually she would be correct, but they haven't been inside a tavern since the disastrous run-in with Rumina's poisoner on Cyprus. Maeve can't, and he doesn't particularly want to.

"And food," Doubar agrees. "We barely cooled our heels in Lefka; Sinbad had us back on board immediately once he learned you weren't there."

"I don't think I have to remind you why." Sinbad glances at Maeve. She seems fine, tall and bright as always. The white linen she wears glows in the last dim violet of twilight.

"Oh, come on, brother." Doubar throws a heavy arm over Sinbad's shoulder. "It's a big city. Rumina can't be everywhere."

No, she can't, but he's not willing to risk any odds on Maeve's safety he doesn't have to. And he's not leaving her alone on the Nomad. That would be inviting disaster.

"You haven't explained why you were looking for me yet," Talia says. "Who's this Rumina? Never heard of her."

"You have," Firouz insists. "We told you how we, ah, met. When we were at the Temple of Kratos."

Talia shrugs this off. "Didn't stick. Sorry. Tell me again, preferably over a drink."

"No," Sinbad says finally. He just can't do it. "Not me." He drops coins into Rongar's hand. Rongar will keep them safe from Talia's sticky fingers. "Go have your fun. Maeve can't, and after what happened the last time I left someone else to guard my ship, I'm not taking that chance again."

The man whose dozing on watch let Talia slip aboard has been fired. This isn't usually how Sinbad likes to run his ship—after all, no real harm was done. But great harm could so easily have been wrought, and he can't risk those kinds of mistakes anymore. Not with his soul and his family at risk.

"Why can't she go?" Talia looks at Maeve curiously. "Is she in trouble for arguing with the captain?" She laughs. "I thought that sort of thing happened every day."

"It does," Doubar says. He sounds disgusted.

"Rumina had me poisoned," Maeve says, arms folded over her chest, giving Doubar a dirty look before turning to Talia. "She's promised to keep doing it as long as I'm on the Nomad."

"So leave." Talia's voice lifts with surprise. "Find another ship. It's hard for us women to find a place on a crew—believe me, I know. But no job is worth your life."

"You'd be surprised." Maeve's voice is dry as a desert.

"Come on," Doubar says, pushing away from Sinbad and ushering Talia before him. "Let him brood if he wants to brood. I hear stuffed grape leaves calling me."

Rongar looks uncertainly at his captain, but Sinbad nods him off. "Go. I'll watch her. We'll be fine."

"I don't need watching," Maeve grumbles, swinging back onto the deck of the ship. Normally Sinbad agrees. But nothing is normal right now. He doesn't know if it ever will be again.

Rongar and Firouz set off after Doubar and Talia, and Sinbad follows Maeve back onto his ship. He feels better with the sturdy deck under his feet, even if his galley needs repairs.

"This is not a good idea, you know," Maeve says, keeping well away from him. "You're only going to piss off Rumina even more if you decide you need to be my personal bodyguard."

"If I were going to assign you a bodyguard, I'd choose Rongar. Not me. He's faster at spotting danger, and I'm man enough to admit it." Their silent friend has more or less appointed himself to the job anyway. Maeve tolerates him better than she tolerates Sinbad. "But I actually did have a purpose in staying back tonight."

One corner of her full mouth flickers and she changes languages effortlessly. "You want to go to bed while no one's around to hear?" Her droll amusement is palpable. "I'm not interested. I'm still mad at you, sailor."

He would love nothing more than to take her downstairs and fuck her properly—in full light and very, very loudly. Kiss and caress all the irritation and bad feeling out of both of them. But that wasn't actually what he meant. "No. I want to go to Breakwater."

"No."

He knew she wouldn't like this idea. "Listen, I know you're upset with Keely, but I need to talk to Ant. We have an arrangement, and unless there's a way for me to reach him without your magic, I need your help."

"No."

"Come on. You can hide in your room or the library, wherever Keely isn't. You can nap or bathe or read, do whatever you want to do, and I promise I'll make it worth your while after. Please."

She frowns, studying him in the dim light. He watches as she considers his offer. She likes when he says please. But Maeve hasn't been back to Breakwater since Keely took her there without permission and she and her sister are fighting childishly about it, refusing to speak to each other. It's their right and he knows better than to get in the middle of it. He just wants to talk to Antoine.

Maeve's chin lifts, her expression hard and challenging. She's still mad at him and he knows it. "Apologize."

"What?" He blinks. That wasn't exactly what he expected.

"Apologize," she repeats, her voice steady. "You want my help? That's what it's gonna take."

He frowns. Once he finally gets to Antoine, he needs to ask if there's a way to communicate that doesn't involve going through Maeve. An apology for snapping at her earlier isn't a big deal, but he can see this situation happening again. And again. And at some point she may say no and seriously mean it.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he is...sort of. He's sorry that he didn't handle her with more care, because he knows better than to bark orders in her face and grab at her. He's known almost from the very beginning that that sort of captaining won't get him what he wants from her. But he can't promise that he won't ever do it again. "I'm sorry that I snapped at you. But you need to cut me some slack in emergencies. I don't always have time to think everything through before I do it."

"I know," she says evenly. It's an admission he doesn't expect. "I'm not so good at it, either. But I hate this, Sinbad." She pushes her hair out of her face with an impatient hand. "All of it—everything. The way you try to protect me when I don't need it. The mess with Doubar. Talia sticking around. What are you going to tell her, anyway?"

"I have a feeling Doubar is taking care of that for me as we speak." He can't stop his brother's wagging tongue, so he suspects he'll have to do a great deal of damage control in the morning. He considers her, shades of grey and blue in the darkness of the nighttime harbor. He can't see her expression well, but he can hear the exhaustion in her voice. She's so tired of all this, and so is he. But they have no choice, and a long time left to go. "Sweetling, I love you. You know that, right?"

"Yes." Her head drops forward and she stares down at her feet. "But I'm not happy."

"What will it take to make you happy?"

Her answer is immediate: "Rumina's death."

Yeah, he knows the feeling. "I swear to you, that will happen. We'll do it together. For tonight, though, what will it take? What can I do?" He likes having set tasks, clear-cut goals he can accomplish. This war with Scratch and Rumina drives him crazy because of the lack. He has no enemy to face down, nowhere to aim his sword.

Maeve doesn't answer. The silence stretches between them, thick as tar.

What else can he offer? He loves her desperately, but he doesn't know how to do this. If she doesn't tell him what she needs, he can't help.

Finally, she moves. Her hands fall to her sides. Her silhouette in the darkness looks empty—hollow. "I'll take you to Antoine." She turns and opens the door, disappearing below deck.

He follows. What else can he do? Ever since meeting this girl, he feels like he's been chasing her, and she him, back and forth, each in turn. Now he's finally caught her, but she seems further away than ever.

She retrieves her bracelet from the chest at the foot of her bunk, the chest Queen Nadia gave her ages ago. He watches her lock it securely, something she doesn't tend to do. But Talia's here now.

She slides the bracelet on her wrist and holds out her hand without meeting his eyes.

"Hey. Stop that." He takes her hand and tugs gently, trying to pull her closer.

"No," she says very firmly, just as the opal in her bracelet lights red with her magic. The world dissolves around them. When it winks back into focus, they're in the open meadow in front of the house at Breakwater. Rain pours down. She pulls her hand away. "I'll be upstairs."

She turns from him without another word, pushing open the door and stepping inside. Her boots leave wet footprints on the wooden floor.

She's still upset, and he can't really blame her. But he wishes she wouldn't push him away. He loves her desperately, and he wants to help. He knows she's unhappy, but he doesn't know how to fix it. He'll make it up to her somehow, he swears. When this is all over. When they can be happy again. He'll make Doubar apologize. He'll find Dermott. He'll do whatever it takes.

Right now, though, he needs Antoine.

He heads for the kitchen, where he can smell food cooking. Poking his head around the door, he finds Wren and Keely. He's cautious. Keely left in a huff the last time they spoke, and he suspects she's still mad at him. That temper is one thing she and her sister share, and he wishes they didn't.

"Showed up just in time to eat, did you?" Keely says without looking at him. A curly little head pops up next to her, craning to see over the tall work table.

"Not on purpose." He's not hungry, anyway. He just wants to talk to Ant. And give Maeve a little respite from the tension on the Nomad, though while she's fighting with Keely that may be no reprieve.

"That's what they all say," Wren says, but she grins as she speaks. She has a pile of spring onions in front of her and, for once, no baby attached to her hip.

"I need to talk to Ant. That's all."

"He's down cellar. Be back in a minute." Wren glances behind her, where Keely is studiously not looking at Sinbad. "How is Maeve?"

"Not great," he admits. "She's upstairs."

Keely says nothing. Sinbad doesn't know many specifics about her bond with her sister, but he suspects she knew the moment Maeve appeared on Breakwater.

"I'll go up when I'm done here," Wren says, when it's clear Keely isn't going to respond.

"I can finish, auntie," Mia says, leaving her mother's side.

Wren considers this. "Will you be careful?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Wren draws a tall stool close to the table and Mia clambers up, kneeling on the seat and reaching for the knife. Rory appears at her side, the boy born two days after her, her softer shadow.

"Careful," Wren says. "Fingers don't grow back if you lose them."

The kitchen knife is too big for her, but if neither Keely nor Wren protest, Sinbad can't either. Wren wipes her hands on a rag and leaves the kitchen just as Antoine enters it, a cask under each long arm.

"I thought we might be seeing you soon," he says, his lopsided grin splitting his face wide. He sets the casks down. "Come on. I have to check on the boys since Niall's busy upstairs. Want to come, Rory?"

The little boy at Mia's side shakes his head silently.

"He's a smart one," Ant says as they step outside, once again in the heavy rain. "Prefers to stay where it's warm and dry. Where there's food." He laughs.

"I thought he goes where Mia goes?"

"He does," Ant agrees. "She's the light, he's the reflection. For now. Children change." He leads the way toward the barn, where Sinbad can hear loud little piping voices. "You and your crew getting hungry again yet?"

"No," Sinbad says. "You've given us enough to last a while. And I appreciate it. More than I can say. I hate to ask for more, but Maeve isn't feeling well."

"Is she asking for strange things yet? Keel wants the oddest things when she's expecting, and Wren is worse. Before, when we were living rough, she would eat clay. Right out of the riverbank." He snorts a dry laugh. "Keel said if she ate meat, dark organ meat, the compulsion would stop, but back then we had no way to get it. Poaching is a hanging offense. Squirrels and rabbits are one thing, but we weren't stupid enough to try to take anything bigger."

"She was eating clay? Literally eating clay?" Sinbad's steps slow. Will Maeve try to do that, too? How is he supposed to react if she does?

"Aye. It's better now," Ant assures him. "Keel knows what they should be eating, and we have access to whatever we need. What's my baby girl demanding?" He sounds amused.

Sinbad doesn't think it's funny, though Antoine's easygoing demeanor calms him somewhat. Ant isn't worried, and he's been through this before. "Nothing like that, I don't think. But she's sick and miserable."

"Keely can fix that in a snap."

Why is he not surprised? "Maeve won't let her, even if Keely's willing. You can ask, if you want. She's already upset at me; I'm not willing to start a fight I know I won't win."

Antoine grunts his agreement. "I hate when their fights drag on like this. Makes life more difficult for everyone. It's so much easier when they just blow and settle, like a passing storm." He ducks through the barn door. Inside, the chickens are attempting to roost but the noise and scurry of Niall's eldest two boys prevents them. "How are we doing on chores?" he asks.

"Dex knocked over the milk."

"I did not! Anyway, I saved most of it."

"Take whatever you saved inside," Ant says, overriding the bickering before it begins. "Have the sheep been penned for the night? I don't want any surprises during lambing season."

"Yes, sir," the elder boy says.

"I want to stay out with you tonight," Dex says, hefting two half-full pails of milk.

"No, you don't," Ant tells him as Brandon takes two more pails. "It's pouring. And I doubt we'll see any lambs tonight, anyway."

Declan frowns, then eyes Sinbad speculatively. "Is Maeve here, too? If I can't stay with the sheep, I want to hear an adventure story."

"She's here, but I don't think she's feeling much like storytelling," Sinbad says as Antoine guides the boy's skinny little frame toward the door. Although, what does he know? Maeve adores this little monster.

"Can you tell stories, then?" Declan persists, watching Sinbad with bright brown eyes.

Can he? He's not entirely sure. He's done so in taverns, the kind of drunken, embellished tales men tell late at night, each trying to best the others. But Doubar always outdoes him, and anyway, is that the sort of tale small children want? "I don't really know," he admits.

"Anyone can tell stories," Brandon says, pushing his brother through the doorway. Antoine comes last, closing it behind him.

"Not good ones," Dex says, his little shoulders sagging under the weight of half-full wooden milk pails. Sinbad knows much more about little boys than he does about babies or girls; he knows better than to offer to take the pails. "Maeve's the best. Mam's good. Da's not."

"His problem is source material, not delivery," Ant says as they start back across the meadow. "And that's not really his fault. He grew up among monks."

"What are monks?" Declan asks.

"Not us," Ant says dryly.

Sinbad snorts. That's an understatement. Despite similar intellectual pursuits, Maeve's family are the furthest thing from monks he's ever met. They like good food and strong drink, and the proliferation of small children attests to their other favorite un-monk-like pastime.

"If Maeve isn't asking for strange foods, why are you here?" Ant asks as the boys dawdle in the rain. They dart and weave through the wet grass as if unable to walk a direct path from one point to another. "Did you want to try to make the girls make up? Because that's an exercise in futility, my friend."

"No," Sinbad says quickly. No way. He knows better than that. "I wish they would, for Maeve's sake, but I'm not stupid enough to get in the middle of it." Ant has known them both far longer than he has, but Sinbad's a fast learner. "Maeve is sick and miserable, like I said. She said ginger or limes might help." He rubs the back of his neck, wet hair dripping. "It's ludicrously expensive; I already know that. I'll pay. Willingly. Happily. But I won't buy anything for her from a market right now unless I absolutely have to."

"Why not?" Dex asks, swerving back toward them. "I like going to market."

"It's dangerous for Maeve right now," Ant says. "Her baby has to be protected."

This seems to satisfy the boy, who darts away again, the milk in his pails sloshing. "I hope it's another boy. Mia says Auntie Keel's is a boy."

Sinbad is still a little nervous around Antoine's eldest daughter, with her mother's green eyes and uncanny way of knowing things. If Mia says Keely's having a boy, he trusts the kid. He looks at Antoine, who grimaces.

"What's the matter? Aren't you happy to have a son?"

"I'll be happy to have a healthy child and Keel safe after he's born. But honestly, given the choice I'd keep having girls. You have no idea the amount of trouble these monsters cause." He nods through the rain at the little boys.

"I don't know. The way I heard it, Mia causes the most trouble."

Antoine grins proudly, but the smile fades quickly. "Which is why I'm worried about what her brother may be like."

That's something Sinbad never thought about. He himself would prefer a boy, because he has no clue what to do with a little girl. But considering how hard-headed Maeve can be, how fierce and unyielding, he quails to think what a terror her son might be. A cute terror, for sure, and an amusing one. But a terror nonetheless. Maybe Antoine has it right. Maybe he _should_ be hoping for a daughter.

Ant scratches his chin as they near the house. Ahead, light streams through the glassed-in windows, illuminating the rain like bright little sparks as it streams down. "As for Maeve, I wish I could just send Keel up to her. She'd do a better job than any herb or tonic Maeve or your scientist could concoct. But I can't."

"I know it's expensive," Sinbad repeats. "Especially up here." He's not even sure Ant can procure ginger at any price. Even in Sinbad's haunts, far closer to cultivars in India, ginger isn't easy to come by. But if Maeve wants it, he'll do whatever he can to provide it. Far better an expensive medicine than none at all, in this case. She can hide behind the excuse of her poisoning for a while, but if she remains consistently queasy everyone will figure out what's really going on.

"I'll see what I can do. Were I human I'd say it wasn't possible. But I'm not." Ant grins cheekily, and his eyes fall again on the boys as they step through the doorway. "Maybe we can work out a deal," he says thoughtfully.

The boys disappear down the stairs to the cellar as Sinbad shakes the rain from his hair. Niall is now in the kitchen with his two-year-old sitting on the table beside him as he slices bread. Keely is gone.

"What sort of deal?" He's happy to do anything for Maeve, and for her family. They've helped him enough, and he's only too glad to return the favor.

Antoine glances at Niall. "The _teas_ will be on us again soon, and no one in town will take all of the kids anymore," he says slowly. "They're too much of a handful, no matter what we pay."

Niall puts his knife down. He looks at Sinbad appraisingly.

Oh, no. Sinbad knows that look. He watches as the two-year-old sitting on the tabletop rolls forward, getting to his hands and knees, then his feet. He heads for the edge of the table. Niall stops him without even looking.

"You want us—me and my crew—to watch your kids? On my ship? For three days?" This sounds like a terrible idea. A disastrous idea. Maeve insists they're good kids, but they outnumber his crew even with Talia aboard and Sinbad just doesn't like those odds.

"Not all of them," Niall says hastily. "We'll have to split them up this time, no matter where they go."

"You can't hide the girls' wings, not for that long. Not with how active they are. And Bran and Dex know Maeve is carrying. They're good boys, but they're too small to trust to keep a secret that vital."

The two-year-old is still trying to walk off the edge of the table. Niall lifts him to the floor and releases him. "The younger two or three boys, maybe. Depending on whether Rory will be parted from Mia."

The Nomad absolutely would not survive seven children, but two or three sounds...possible? Sinbad cringes internally. On the other hand, he's going to have his own kid very soon, so this is something he'll have to figure out eventually anyway. "As long as Maeve agrees," he says. He knows better than to agree to this without her consent. She and Doubar are the only ones aboard who know anything about babies, and Doubar's experience was a long time ago.

"Check with her," Ant says amiably. "And you're welcome to look in the library if you're desperate, to see if there's a spell or potion to help Maeve. I can point you to the magic section, but I'm afraid I can't do much more than that. Keel and Nessa have been working in that area, not me."

Sinbad shakes his head. He's no good with libraries and he's afraid to touch those books. Maeve can search for a cure if she wants to, but he's not going to risk damaging those fragile tomes any worse than they already are.

"You staying for dinner?" Niall asks, picking up the knife once more. A crash sounds from the direction in which the two-year-old disappeared. Neither father blinks.

"No," Sinbad says, resisting the urge to run toward the sound. No one is screaming and neither father seems worried, so he does his best to shrug it off. "Maeve's tired, but she doesn't want to stay here tonight. We should head home, so she can sleep." He wishes he could curl up with her in his bunk, but with Talia around that's no longer possible. He needs to start repairs on the busted cabin quickly. Those few hours of complete dark and quiet are all they have, and neither of them are in a good mood without it. Even sex is secondary to the feeling of having her close, dropping the pretenses, the lies, and just...existing. Just the two of them. He can sleep without her, he's discovered, but not well. He wakes at every tiny noise, each creak and pop of rope and wood, wind and water, hoping it's her. He's exhausted. She's exhausted. And the worst, he knows, is yet to come.

"I'll let you know if I can track down any ginger or limes," Antoine says, clasping his hand in parting. "Take care of her. And yourself."

* * *

Maeve trudges up the wooden staircase of her second home, the library at Breakwater, tired and foul-tempered. She doesn't want to see her sister. She doesn't want to see anyone.

Usually a hot bath is a highlight of a visit, considering how seldom she gets one elsewhere. Today she enters her room and closes the door firmly behind her, ignoring the call of a basin big enough to soak in. She's too tired to scrub, too tired to bother with clean clothes. She drops her boots and her belt, loosens the leather cincher around her waist, and rolls into her bed. The feather mattress and down-filled blanket fit like old friends. She buries her head in her pillow.

And cries.

She doesn't know why. She's too tired to question the impulse as she gives herself over to it. She's not a crier, but she wraps her body tightly in her soft red bedcover and succumbs. Because she misses Dermott. Doubar. Keely. Because she doesn't want to be here, though it's the only place in the world where she feels safe. Because Talia's appeared and now she can't have Sinbad at all, even in the dead of night. She has a plethora of reasons, none of which on their own tip her over the edge into despair. Taken all together, though, she wants nothing more than to stay here, right here, buried under her blanket, for the next six moons.

The soft sound of the door startles Maeve. Her stomach drops. She holds her breath, loathing the disturbance and hoping whoever it is didn't hear her. She doesn't cry, and she especially doesn't cry in front of people.

But it's not people; it's just Wren and her baby. Smaller than Nessa, softer than Keely, she settles herself along Maeve's back over the blanket. "It's okay," she says, Con babbling quietly in her arms. "Niall's in the library and everyone else is downstairs. Go ahead."

Somehow, being given permission to fall apart makes Maeve feel better. Not a lot, but any relief is welcome. She closes her eyes and does. Crying is such an odd sensation. It hurts, and she hates it, but it feels overwhelmingly indulgent, too. Maybe it wouldn't if she did it more often, but she's never really felt there was any use in it. Crying solves no problems, fixes nothing.

But fuck, right now it feels really, really good.

Wren waits patiently, a warm, steady, nonjudgmental presence at her back. This is often her role—a peacemaker when the more volatile personalities in the family clash. Both she and Niall are well-suited to the task. Maeve loves all of her people desperately, but in this moment there's no one she wants more, not even Sinbad. Especially not Keely. For the first time in a very, very long time, she gives herself permission to cry everything out. She can't remember the last time she did so. Possibly it was when Rumina first cursed Dermott—a very, very long time ago. Sometimes it feels like a lifetime.

Eventually her continued tears disturb the baby, who joins in with fretting whimpers. And, though she has no idea why, that makes Maeve laugh. The sound trickles through tears and she turns over, releasing her clenched grip on her blanket and taking Con from his mother. She rests him on her chest and tucks his hot little head under her chin.

"There." Wren strokes her windblown hair gently. "I don't know if it will make you feel any better to hear, but you have every right to fall apart right now. Most women do. Some continually."

No, it doesn't make her feel better. She does not want to be a sobbing mess for moons, in addition to a queasy one. "Is there a spell to jump ahead until this part's over?"

Wren smiles. "The sorceress who can do that will be rich beyond Midas." She sits up, tucking her bare feet under her skirt.

Maeve holds her youngest nephew close. Now that she's quiet his whimpers calm, too. He's warm and soft, heavier than he looks, a sturdy little thing. His fat little fist closes around a curl of her hair. "Are you going to ask what's wrong?" she asks, watching Wren guardedly.

"No. You could be up here crying even if nothing was wrong. That's just how it goes sometimes."

Maeve exhales deeply, relieved. She can't explain how she feels even to herself, let alone to someone else. She kisses Con's warm head. "He's getting big."

"They don't stay tiny very long. He'll be crawling soon."

Maeve sniffs. "Is Keely still mad at me?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

No, not really. She strokes the feathery wisps of Con's hair. His brothers all had full heads of dark, baby-fine hair by his age. He doesn't yet, but all babies are different. Holding him soothes some of the anxious fear in her.

"How are you feeling?" Wren settles herself more comfortably on the feather mattress. "Sinbad didn't say anything specific."

"Sick." Maeve closes her eyes. She feels okay at the moment, while there's nothing provoking her belly.

"In the morning?"

"Anytime I smell food. Or anything too strong, which is a problem on the sea." She grimaces. "This really isn't fun."

Wren puts a gentle palm on the back of her hand and squeezes softly. "I know you don't want to hear it, but Keely could help."

"No." Not for what it will cost her: an apology, another fight before making up. She's too tired. She'd rather stay sick.

"You know that old saying? Don't cut off your nose to spite your face? Whoever coined it was talking about you."

Maeve sticks her tongue out. She knows, and she doesn't care.

Wren rolls her eyes, but she also smiles. "Whoever coined it was talking about the both of you. And Dermott, too." She slides off the bed. "Hold on. Let me see what I can do." She leaves the room quickly.

Maeve holds her youngest nephew on her chest and closes her eyes. He's pulling her hair and sucking on the end of the lock in his fist, but it doesn't hurt enough to stop him yet. He's about six moons now, if she remembers correctly. Half a year. In another half a year she'll be much more pregnant, and ready to battle Scratch for Sinbad's soul. What exactly she'll have to do to win the fight, she doesn't know. The task changes from telling to telling, and according to Doubar al-Alawy wasn't clear on that point. Maybe Antoine will know. She rubs Con's back as he lifts his heavy head and smiles at her, a fistful of slobbery red hair in his mouth. If he had teeth she'd worry, but he doesn't yet.

Wren returns, walking swiftly, a crockery jar in her hands. "Here. This is the herbal mixture Keel makes for pregnant women. I can't remember what's exactly in it, but it should help." She uncorks the top and holds it out.

Maeve sits up, one arm supporting the baby, the other reaching for the jar. She smells it as Con tugs harder at her hair. Peppermint and spearmint, and what smells like licorice but is probably fennel.

"I think I remember raspberry leaf and nettle in there," Wren says, scratching her nose. "Maybe rose hips?"

"Thanks." Maeve puts the jar down and smiles. Mint may help soothe her nausea, if nothing else, and it's far easier to come by than ginger.

"There's plenty of chamomile, too, if you're having trouble sleeping."

"No, no trouble there." Maeve makes a face. "I'm already too tired. I don't need to feel worse."

"Your body's doing a lot right now, even though you don't have a belly yet. Cut yourself some slack."

"I can't." Maeve grimaces as the baby tugs on her hair and laughs. "Rumina doesn't know I'm carrying. That can't change. If I slow down, she'll get suspicious."

"I don't understand how she isn't anyway," Wren says. "You're the only woman around. Even if Rumina doesn't know Sinbad's your _céile—_which she ought to if she watched you together for even five seconds—you're the only logical choice."

Maeve shrugs. Puzzling out Rumina would mean understanding her, which Maeve never wants to do. This denial could be just wishful thinking on the witch's part. "Keely passed off her baby as Sinbad's, which had to give Rumina something to think about. And now Talia's appeared." She makes a face.

"Talia?"

"A pirate. She and Sinbad have a past." Maeve really doesn't want to talk about this. She leans back against the wall and tries to gently untangle the baby's fist from her hair. "No wonder you keep your hair short," she says, wincing.

"I have five little boys, a house to care for, and a library to help run. I don't have time to take care of hair." Wren reaches over and deftly unwraps the little clenched fist from Maeve's hair, eliciting a whine of dismay from the baby. Maeve hushes him, giving him her finger to gum instead. He settles for this as she shakes her curls safely behind her shoulders. "Doesn't Sinbad have a past with just about every woman you meet?"

Maeve makes a face at her. "So he's not a former monk. Most men aren't."

Wren laughs. "Probably better for you that he's not, if you think about it. I had to teach Niall. A _lot_. He was a virgin. I'm not sure he ever even touched himself. He looked horrified when I asked."

"I didn't need to know that."

Wren shrugs. "I'm just saying. I guess having a past isn't all bad. That's how you learn."

Maeve rubs the baby's back with her thumb as he gnaws happily on her finger with his toothless gums. "I don't really care that he has a past. Mostly. He's a sailor, and there's a reason sailors have the reputation they do. I don't know why Talia irritates me so much, but she does."

"Do you trust Sinbad?"

"Yes." This is automatic—a gut-level response. She loves him, and she trusts him. She knows he wants her, not Talia. "But Talia stirs up trouble. I don't think she even means to, necessarily, but chaos follows her like night follows day."

"It follows you, too."

"It does not!" Maeve protests. "Trouble follows me. Not chaos." She's nothing like Talia.

Wren chuckles. "Point." Her sharp, friendly face sobers and her eyes turn thoughtful. "I'm not as well-read as Niall, as well-trained as Keely. I haven't known you as long as Ant or Nessa. But I don't think you're really angry."

Maeve's delicate eyebrows draw together. Years and experience separate her and Wren—Wren is the eldest woman at Breakwater and has five children already; Maeve is youngest and only now carrying her first, a child she would not have chosen to bear under other circumstances. She values the older woman's experience but she's not sure she understands. "I'm very angry," she says. Her emotions are a confused mess right now, but that one she definitely feels.

"I don't think so. I think you're frustrated. More than that, you're lonely."

The baby reaches for Maeve's hair again. She ducks out of his grasp and offers her finger instead, which he doesn't want. He puts his own finger in his mouth and whines, threatening tears.

"Dermott's gone. You're fighting with Sinbad's brother. With Keely. Sinbad is your _céile_ now, but you can't touch him, can't even talk openly with him because Rumina might be watching. You're carrying for the first time, which is lonely and frightening enough by itself, but you can't tell anyone. You can't even seek a midwife if you need one, except for Keely, and you're fighting with her."

Maeve tightens her grip on the baby in her arms. He looks up at her with big, sweet hazel eyes, an indeterminate color as newborn blue deepens to brown, as all of his brothers' eyes did before him. She touches his tiny nose, traces the fine line of one little eyebrow. All the children of Breakwater take after their fathers, not their mothers. She wonders if hers will follow suit. She wouldn't complain. Sinbad is a beautiful man, and a good one.

"But, you know," Wren says, "no matter how much she tries, there's one person Rumina can't take away from you."

Maeve frowns. "Sinbad?" Rumina absolutely can take him away. That's what they're trying to prevent.

"No, you dope. This one, here." She pokes Maeve's belly. "Dermott may be off acting like an ass. The other men you sail with may be acting like asses. You may not be able to be with Sinbad as you want to. But you can love that baby all you please. Nothing's stopping you. As lonely as you may feel sometimes, you're never really alone. He's always there with you."

Tears prick Maeve's eyes again, and she hates it. She's not a crier, not some weepy woman, and she has no desire to become one. She blinks them back and kisses Con's warm head. "I'm not sure yet, but I think she's a girl."

Wren smiles. "I won't bet against you. Keely thinks she's having a boy this time. Ant's terrified."

"Sinbad won't be happy."

"You may be surprised. Niall wants a girl. Ant would prefer another, given the choice."

"Sinbad's not like them." Maeve herself would prefer a boy. The world is a kinder, easier place for men than it is for women. She knows that all too well. But she refuses to be picky. She's well aware that she's already asking for a lot: Sinbad's soul, a healthy child, her own life. She won't ask for more.

"You still may be surprised," Wren says, shrugging. "In any case, she's always with you now. You're not alone, even when you feel like you are. Keely thought that was creepy her first time around, but your situation is different. Maybe it will help."

Maeve smiles. "Thank you." It does help. A lot. As Con begins to truly fuss, his tolerance for being snuggled at an end, she feels a flicker of warmth inside. Wren is right. She may not have the support of the family she's come to rely on—Dermott, Doubar, Keely, even to some extent Firouz—and she may not be able to talk openly with Sinbad or feel his arms around her at night anymore, but she has her baby. A baby currently wreaking havoc on her body, but she doesn't mean to. And she means so much to Maeve—to everyone on the Nomad, though they don't yet know it.

"Like I said, I'm not the smart one. But I know loneliness. Fear." Wren squeezes her hand. "You can always come home if it gets too hard. You'll have to make up with Keely, of course. But that door is always open."

As always when this option is presented, Maeve shakes her head. "Not unless I have to."

"I know. But at some point 'have to' is going to arrive. You won't be showing for a while, especially since this is your first. Keel's belly will pop before yours. But you won't make it to Samhain on the Nomad."

"You don't know that."

"I absolutely do. You'll be able to cinch down for a while, though I don't know how wise that is. Keely would probably tell you not to. But eventually you just won't be able to hide it anymore. Besides, I'd think being on a ship, especially in all that heat, would be miserable once you're really starting to grow."

The baby in Maeve's arms pushes at her, reaching for his mother. He's decided he's hungry and he whines, knowing perfectly well who provides milk. Maeve hands him over, drawing a knee to her chest, frowning as she watches Wren hush her son. "Countless women live in that heat. More than live here. They deal with it."

"But they don't have the added stress of trying to hide it," Wren says, unlacing the front of her bodice so her son can nurse. "That's the part I think you're just not getting. You think you're uncomfortable now? Just wait."

"I can handle it." She has to. She doesn't have a choice. The Nomad is her home, and she belongs there. With Sinbad. She'll feel worse if she's stuck here, so far away. Not knowing what's happening to him—whether Rumina's tried another trick, whether he's got himself into some other trouble—would be far more stressful than dealing with the constant lies.

"For now," Wren agrees. "And when you can't anymore, we'll be here." She smiles. "Take the herbs with you when you go, and let me know if you need anything else. I can be your go-between until you and Keel decide to make up."

That may take a while. It often does. Neither of them are good at admitting they're wrong. And Wren is wrong right now. Maeve can do it. She can make it to Samhain on the Nomad. She has to.

"Rest," Wren says, rising with her fussing son in her arms. "I have to feed this guy. Stay tonight, at least. Rumina can't see you here."

Maeve knows. But if Rumina's watching the Nomad, she'll wonder where they've gone. That's almost as bad as catching them together. They need to get back, she to her bunk and he to his.

It won't be forever, she tells herself, letting her head fall back to the pillow as Wren closes the door behind her. After Samhain, things will go back to normal. Or, rather, they'll be able to find a new normal. They'll be able to speak openly once more. She can have Sinbad permanently, and sleep every night tucked against his hard chest. Their daughter will be born, and if Sinbad's correct, Doubar will apologize. She's ready to forgive him, ready to put all of this behind them. His behavior hurts, but she can't really blame him. He only wants to save his brother.

She curls on her side, tucking her body under her thick, downy blanket once more. Wren is wrong about leaving the Nomad, but she may be right about everything else. Especially this. She wraps herself firmly in her blanket, hugging herself tight. Rumina can force her to lie, alienating everyone around her. She can't take away Sinbad's love, but she can take away his ability to express it. She can make Maeve's life a living hell, and she seems set on doing so. But she can't attack what she doesn't know about, so she can't keep Maeve from loving her daughter. The shadow of a wry smile touches her mouth. The fate of every big, tough man on the Nomad now rests in the hands of one tiny little girl. It feels ironically fitting, somehow. Rumina sold Sinbad's soul to Scratch to gain power over him, to force him to make a choice: love her or lose his soul. But Sinbad chose a third option—to give that power over to Maeve, and ultimately to the child she will bear. His daughter is going to save his life. She's going to save all of them.

But it's a huge responsibility to place on a barely-conceived little spark of life. Maeve hugs herself, drawing her knees up close to her body, wrapping herself around that little spark. She'll protect her. She'll do everything in her power to protect her. Her child will be a hero before she's born, but even heroes need a little help. She'll do whatever it takes—endure Doubar's wrath, Talia's chaos. She'll hide for as long as she possibly can, retreating to Breakwater only if it becomes absolutely necessary. As much as her daughter needs her, so does Sinbad. And he needs them in return.

* * *

She wakes, sleepy and momentarily confused, when gentle arms circle her waist. One dim glowing orb lights the room. She recognizes the rough-soft touch, the smell of his skin, and relaxes into them.

"Sinbad."

He kisses her temple, the corner of her mouth. "Do you want to stay here tonight? We can."

The alternative is spending the night alone. She desperately doesn't want to. The steady warmth of his body settles her more than anything else in the world.

But they need to get back. They can't be gone overnight without a compelling reason, one they can explain to the others. One that Doubar—and Rumina—will accept. Today they have none.

"Want to," she says, turning in his arms. "Can't." She strokes his cheek with a sleepy hand. He was clean-shaven this morning, now faintly scratchy with a day's worth of growth. She cups the back of his neck and brings him close, kissing him gently. How long it will be until she can kiss him again, she doesn't know. She's afraid to wonder.

"Hey." His mouth is so warm, moves with hers so sweetly it brings tears to her eyes. "Are you okay?" He pulls away just far enough to look at her, blue eyes dark with worry.

She nods. "Better now." She's still a mess, and if Wren is correct, she probably will be for some time. But she's better than she was. She's going home with a jar of dried herbs, her daughter, her _céile_, and a lot to think about. It's more than she had when she got here. She's determined to be grateful. Her arms wind around Sinbad's shoulders and she kisses him hard.

"Beautiful," he says when she releases him. He kisses her mouth, strokes her hair gently back from her face. "Even if we don't stay the night, nothing says we have to leave right now."

She doesn't deliberate at all. "Please."


	23. Chapter 23

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Maeve takes her red blanket with her when they leave Breakwater. Sinbad doesn't question her. She can have whatever she wants, as far as he's concerned. He'd buy her a new one or the materials to make it if she asked for it, give her whatever might make her happy. But he can't without raising suspicions and she doesn't want him to, besides. So he holds his tongue, sometimes the only thing he seems able to do right these days, as she wraps the soft material around herself like a hug.

Back in Crete the night is kinder, warm and soft, without the oppressive chill of rain beating down. He listens to the ship as they stand in the darkness of the galley, faint moonlight peeking through the hatches above. The silence is complete—no snores, no rustles of straw mattresses. They beat the others back. He's a little surprised, honestly. They stayed north later than they should have, which is his fault. He drew her back down when she would have risen and reached for her clothes, not yet ready to let her out of his arms, to end what might be their last tryst together for some time. With Talia aboard and the spare cabin destroyed, they have to be more careful than ever. He hates it.

"Apparently everyone is having a good time in town." She smiles faintly, speaking into the soft darkness. There's a wistful quality to her words that hurts him. She wants to be with their friends.

"They needed it." They all need to blow off a little steam. He suspects Talia may be able to help with that. If there's one thing the Black Rose knows how to do, it's have a good time. "I just hope I don't have to rescue Doubar from lockup in the morning. Or Talia." It's been known to happen. Not so much when Sinbad's around to mitigate any potential damage before it occurs, but he can't always be his brother's keeper. Nor Doubar his.

Maeve huddles in her blanket despite the warm Mediterranean night, a darker shadow among shadows. He wants badly to touch her, to hold her against him for just a little while longer, but the darkness is not complete and their friends could return at any moment.

"What did you want from Antoine, anyway?" She cups a large crockery jar in her hands. Even corked it smells softly of mint.

"He's looking for ginger for you."

Her head dips slightly in acknowledgment. "He won't find any. Not in Eire, nor Britannia. It'd be faster to sail for Malabar ourselves. I'll be fine. Wren gave me something."

He's grateful for whatever she has in that jar, but he's still determined to get her what she wants if she'll let him. "Just the same, we made a deal. He said he can't promise anything but he'll try."

"What sort of deal?" No hint of suspicion enters her voice, which, to Sinbad, says a lot about how far they've come together. When they first met, not only would she have refused to let him give her so much as a dipper of water, but she would have regarded any deal struck on her behalf as suspect.

"They have to split up the kids for the coming _teas_." He hopes this deal doesn't bother her. Antoine and Niall have done so much for them, and he'd like the chance to repay their kindness...even if it does require babysitting. "I told Niall we'd take some of them."

She laughs. Not a reaction he expected, but at least not the refusal he feared. Her laughter is loud and long—the kind of full, aching belly laugh he hasn't heard from her in far too long. He revels in it.

"What's so funny? Including Talia there's six of us, plus three contract men. I think we can handle a couple of little boys for a few days."

Her laughter continues, bubbling out of her like clear water from a spring. It's so beautiful. He has to figure out how to make her laugh like that more often. "What do you know about small children?"

Not a lot. He'd be more confident taking the older boys, but Niall says that's not a good idea. "I don't, but Doubar does. You do."

That bubbling laugh continues, warm and amused. "I'm laying odds against you, just so you know."

He doesn't mind. She can bet against him all she wants in this instance, if it makes her happy. If it makes her laugh like that again. "I'm glad you're amused. Go to bed, _mo chailín_. Get some rest while you can. Tomorrow we have to start on repairs to the ship."

She sobers, and he can picture perfectly the look of distaste on her face, the way her mouth curls in dislike, though he can't see it in the darkness. "And work fast," she grumbles, turning for her door. "I don't like sharing my cabin."

He does, but only with her. Soon enough, if all goes well, his cabin will be hers, too. The baby she carries can have her old cabin when it's old enough to sleep alone. Or maybe, once they free Dim-Dim, their mentor will choose to stay on board for a while. Sinbad hopes he does. He's really not sure about this fatherhood thing, and Maeve's immediate laughter at his willingness to bring children aboard the Nomad only proves she has as little confidence in his ability as he does.

He settles in his bunk, beyond tired. His bed is too big and too empty without Maeve, and he finds himself out-of-sorts and grouchy without her warmth curled against him, her whisper in his ear. He's happy that she had a moment of true, unbridled laughter, but now that he thinks about it, he's not sure he likes the cause. She's willing to give him the child he needs to save his soul, but she seems unconvinced of his capacity to care for it. She certainly doesn't believe he can care for Niall's boys for a few days.

And really, why should she? He feels as adrift as she believes he is. He tucks a hand behind his head, staring up into the blackness, smelling the lingering hint of sulfurous smoke from Firouz's accident. He wishes Maeve had a little more faith in him. That he had it in himself. He wishes...many things. That he could keep her close in the light. That she didn't wear such a clear target on her back. That his mentor could be found soon. One thing he's learned since losing Dim-Dim is how much everyone needs guidance from time to time. Even adults. Even heroes. Even him. Without Dim-Dim and unable to speak honestly with his men, he's had to rely on Maeve's brothers. He appreciates their support, but it's not the same. Dim-Dim is the closest thing to a father he's ever known, Doubar more than a brother. Without that ballast to steady him, he feels less than secure. Less than whole.

And that's no state for him to be in as he attempts for the first time to care for a new life, a son or daughter wholly his responsibility. Maeve will have to bear the burden of his ignorance, and he hates knowing this. He was raised by a tutor and an older brother, not a father. He doesn't feel slighted, doesn't feel they failed him, but he does feel unprepared for what's coming, what he saw even tonight when Maeve lay undressed in his arms—the slightest rounding of her belly and soft swelling of her sensitive breasts that speaks of the life growing slowly within her. His child is there—very real and very alive. It's coming. Barring disaster, he's going to be a father soon. From a certain point of view, he already is.

That thought makes him ache for Dim-Dim. For his mentor's calm confidence, his knack of saying just the right thing that puts the world to rights. Dim-Dim raised him himself, didn't pass him off to a female servant to rear, though the caliph surely would have provided one. He knows the things Sinbad does not—how to quiet a crying infant, how to soothe it, keep it from harm. He remembers with clarity the easy way Niall stopped his two-year-old from walking off the table tonight, hands reaching for the sturdy little body without thought, no interruption to his words as he spoke with Sinbad and Antoine. These are things Sinbad doesn't understand. He's trained to sail, to fight. Not to parent.

And Maeve shouldn't have to teach him even as she tends to a newborn, recovers from giving birth, and whatever else the Tam Lin Protocol requires of her. He can't ease her burden now, but he can damn well ease it after Samhain—after his soul is safe and they no longer have to hide, to lie. When this mess is over, he decides, they're going to take a break. Go somewhere—hell, maybe Malabar, as she mentioned—and just...rest for a while. Extended shore leave. She'll have a newborn and they'll all need a pause, a reset, to even their keel before they begin a new chapter in this journey. In fact, Malabar sounds pretty perfect, unless she wants to be close to Cairpra. He can imagine exploring exotic markets at a leisurely pace, napping on hot white sand, no more worry that the food she eats might be poisoned, the people near her might be Rumina's puppets. She'll be able to rest, to care for her newborn without fear. Doubar will have a lot to make up to her, but he'll manage. She loves the gentle giant even now, despite everything.

Sinbad dozes, imagining a blanket tossed on a hot, bright beach, the damp jungle pressing close to the shore, Maeve asleep beside him, a tiny newborn cradled to her chest. It's something he never particularly wanted, that baby, but even in a hazy, half-asleep dream the sight of his sorceress holding her own child as tenderly as he's seen her hold Keely's...it does something to him. Something he can't describe. Like his heart's turned to sticky goo and it's melting all down his ribcage. Is that normal? He's not sure. Maybe he should ask her brothers. It doesn't feel bad. It's warm, and he feels soft pressure on his chest.

"Asleep already? That's not the Sinbad I remember."

His body jerks. The image of hot sand and jungle, diamond waves in the background, disappears. He reaches instinctively for Maeve as she vanishes, she and her newborn, as if they had never been. His hand flails, finds warm skin. For a moment as his mind struggles to surface from his dream, calm floods him. The dream is gone, but she's still here. She's here and all's well.

Except something's not right. His groggy mind fumbles for clarity. Warm female breath laced liberally with wine touches his skin, but Maeve wasn't drinking. And she's not supposed to be in his bunk.

Fingers circle his wrists lightly, bring his hands forward to rest against warm cloth. Cloth covering very curvy, very female hips. Too curvy, and Maeve's skirts are light and flowing, not heavy and tight. His hands clamp down and he pushes firmly. This is wrong—all of it is wrong. He knows the smell of his sorceress even in his sleep, every inch of her body, how she feels under his hands. He shakes his head hard, as if he might rattle his brain to full wakefulness, and sits up.

"Oh, come on now. You never did like letting me be on top." She releases his wrists and pushes on his shoulders, trying to pin him back down.

"Talia." Of course. He blinks in the darkness and resists her firm but teasing shove, angling himself out from under her and dropping his legs over the side of his bunk. He should have guessed immediately, but waking from the half-dreamed, half-hoped vision of peace was violently jarring and he's not happy.

"Who'd you expect?" She laughs in the darkness. "You haven't shared a bed with your brother since you were little. And from what I hear your pretty hothead isn't interested."

His 'pretty hothead' will murder both of them if she finds them like this, or hears anyone call her that. This is not good. This is so very not good. Talia's hand rubs his bare chest and she licks his ear. From the smell of her she's tipsy at the least, and she's not being quiet at all. He pushes her away again gently, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care; she's back again instantly. "Did you forget where your cabin is?" he hisses. "And keep your voice down."

"Why?" She laughs, moves her mouth from his ear to his cheek. He knows this body—they've fucked a handful of times, and back then he had no complaints. But nothing feels right as she presses her smaller self against his chest. She's not Maeve. He wants the smell of rain and new grass, not sour wine. It's not a smell he particularly minds, but it's not right. "Everyone already knows I'm here. And why." She clears her throat. "I ought to have a bone to pick with you, you know, for not telling me yourself. I might be grumpy about it tomorrow. Too much good wine tonight for that." She laughs heartily.

"It must have been very good wine."

Oh, no. He flinches back as the door opens, light spilling in. Maeve's dry, amused voice preceded her and she stands in the doorway, fully clothed save her boots, cupping a fat candle in her hands. "Thought you might like some light."

"Thanks," Talia says, squinting. "Now scram. I'm not averse to sharing, but I don't know you that well."

Maeve snorts. "By all means." She puts the candle near the door and steps back. Sinbad wants to grab for her, to insist that it's not what it looks like, but he can't. It's kind of exactly what it looks like, even if it's not his fault. And if anything will rouse Rumina's suspicions, dropping Talia to run after Maeve will do it.

A thump sounds on the wall separating the captain's cabin from the crew's. "Will you get on with it already?" Doubar bellows from the other side. "Some of us would like a little sleep before dawn!"

Part of Sinbad wants to punch his brother in his fat, cheerful face. Another part of him wants to curl up in a corner and disappear. He's never in his life, not even as a child, felt so mortified. Embarrassment is not an emotion he's used to and he wrestles with the unfamiliar sensation.

Talia doesn't seem to feel the same. She laughs. "I'm working on it, big guy," she calls through the wall. "Your brother's a tad reluctant. Or having an off night." Turning back to Sinbad, she appraises him with bright hazel eyes that don't seem entirely able to focus. "Listen, I don't know about the whole kid thing, to be honest. That was never my bag. Some girls like 'em, some don't. Personally, I find them loud. And...damp." She wrinkles her nose. "But I need my ship back. I'm willing to at least consider a trade."

The irony of the situation isn't lost on Sinbad. That's exactly what he would have wanted from her, had Maeve refused him. A trade—a transaction. His soul for whatever she wanted in return, in this case the rescue of her confiscated ship. But her willingness to deal is now a very big problem. He shakes her off as gently as he can and rises to his feet, pulling his shirt over his shoulders. Sleeping even partially bare is no longer an option if Talia's going to make a habit of turning up in his bed. "I'm grateful," he says, struggling to remain outwardly calm, to remember that he needs her help. "I think we can probably make a deal. But now isn't the time to discuss it. We can talk in the morning." Once she's sober. Once he finally figures out what to say.

"No way, buddy. I'm not saying this is a one-time offer or anything, but you have a demon after you. No," she corrects, waving her hand to refute her words. "Not _a_ demon. _The_ demon. Doubar was very clear on that point. And a witch. Was there a warlock, too? I forget. Doubar kept rambling, and the wine was really good. Anyway, I should be running the other way, you know? A kid is a hassle I do not need, and even if I hand it over to you in nine moons like Doubar said, that's still nine moons I'll never get back. A belly I might never get back." She slaps her flat stomach affectionately and laughs. "And there's that demon. The witch. I make enough people mad at me, I don't need yours, too." She drops to her back on his bunk. "But I'll do it. For my ship back." She holds a finger up. "Though that may be the wine talking, so, you know, you might want to take advantage before I change my mind." She cackles loudly.

"Do it, little brother!" Doubar's voice booms through the thin wall. "Take advantage now, ask questions later. Better yet, don't ask them at all. You know what they say about gift horses!"

"HORSES, DID YOU SAY?" Firouz's hearing-impared bellow joins Doubar's. "RONGAR, SLOW DOWN. I CAN'T UNDERSTAND WHEN YOU TRANSLATE SO FAST. TALIA DOESN'T WANT A HORSE, SHE WANTS HER SHIP. AN EMINENTLY REASONABLE TRADE FOR SINBAD'S SOUL, IF YOU ASK ME." He pauses. "NO, I REALIZE NOBODY ACTUALLY ASKED ME. I SAID _IF_."

"Will you shut your mouth?" Doubar demands. "Jump the girl, Sinbad, ask questions later. That's your big brother talking."

"I'm not asking questions. I'm giving orders." He's done. His nocturnal activities, or lack thereof, are nobody's business but his own. And Maeve's. She stands just outside his doorway, looking like she's trying very hard to keep a straight face. Once more, he's glad she's amused. He's sure as hell not. He pulls Talia gently to her feet and propels her to the door by the shoulders, not letting her duck away.

Maeve's attempt at composure fails and she laughs. "Is that how the Black Rose beds down? Try each bunk until you find one that doesn't buck you off?"

"Listen, sweetheart, you didn't want him." Talia stumbles into the table but recovers. "I'll never understand why. He's a great fighter but he's fantastic horizontal, too. In case you were wondering. But you had your chance. I'm happy to deal."

"Tomorrow," Sinbad says firmly. Why isn't Maeve furious? He expected her to be furious.

"Yeah, I may not be so happy to help tomorrow. Or I may, depending on how much ale's in your hold. Any woman would have to be plastered to agree to what you're asking."

They're actually short on beer at the moment, but they have plenty of cider courtesy of Antoine. Whether a sober Talia is more trouble than a drunk one, he hasn't decided yet.

Maeve observes Talia with misgiving as the pirate approaches her door. "You better not snore."

Doubar yanks open the door to the crew's cabin. "I don't much like this comedy act," he growls. "I'll willingly be kept up all night if it gets me my nephew, but if not, I suggest everyone go back to bed." He glares at Sinbad, and at Maeve for good measure.

"I'VE CONCLUDED THAT DEAFNESS IS A DECIDED INCONVENIENCE," Firouz bellows from behind him. "BUT POSSIBLY AN ADVANTAGE AS WELL. IMAGINE THE AWKWARDNESS, DOUBAR, OF LISTENING TO A RELATIVE'S COITUS?"

By their door, both Maeve and Talia dissolve into cackles.

"The hell with all of you!" Doubar slams back into his cabin, banging the door behind him.

Sinbad is too tired to laugh. Too tired to wonder about the puzzle that is his sorceress. Talia is easy; Maeve is not. She ought to be furious at him, at finding Talia in his bed, but she isn't. She seems to think it's the best joke she's heard since he agreed to care for her nephews for a few days. He's glad, once more, that she's amused, but he sure as hell is not.

"Go to sleep—everyone. That's an order. Or we can start work on repairs right now, since you're all so wide awake." He likely won't sleep tonight anyway. Not without Maeve. Not after what just happened.

"With what supplies?" she asks evenly.

They have none yet. "I'll figure it out." He grinds the words through a clenched jaw.

"Good luck with that," she says sweetly, chuckling even as she turns back to her cabin. Sinbad closes his door and blows out the candle she left. Maybe when they gather supplies tomorrow he should invest in a bolt for his cabin. It might help avoid any further midnight incidents while Talia's aboard.

* * *

Maeve's cabin is barely big enough for her tiny bunk and her books, but she doesn't care. It's hers. She's not happy at the prospect of sharing. She lowers herself to the straw mattress in the darkness and wraps her thick down blanket from Breakwater around herself once more. Tucking it tight, tight as Sinbad's arms, she curls on her side and closes her eyes.

A moment later a very warm, drunk body shoves in next to her.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, instantly furious. No. Absolutely not. "Get off! You get the floor."

"No way, sweetheart. I'm not sure what just happened with Sinbad, but I'm a captain same as him. I don't sleep on floors."

"You slept in the hold well enough."

"You locked me in!"

"It's standard procedure!" Maeve shoves her hips back, pushing at the body behind her. She'll share her space if Sinbad orders it, but she won't share her bunk. It's not big enough for two adult bodies, so one of them is going to have to deal with the floor. And that won't be Maeve. She's slept on plenty of floors in her lifetime—slept on this floor for a while, in fact, at Dim-Dim's feet. She will not do so at Talia's.

"Whatever you two are fighting about, you can settle it in the morning with fists like proper sailors. For now, hold the noise!" Doubar hollers from across the galley.

"I THOUGHT YOU WANTED THEM TO MAKE NOISE?" Firouz pauses. "OH, WRONG 'THEM'. NEVER MIND."

"The next person who yells is going to be tipped overboard," Sinbad bellows. "You can swim ashore and sleep there!"

Talia ignores all of this. She's smaller than Maeve but strong and undaunted, like the sturdy little highland ponies her nieces and nephews ride. She refuses to be shoved to the floor. "What's your deal, anyway? Why'd you refuse him?" she hisses back, barely lowering her voice despite Sinbad's threat. She chuckles. "I've never known any woman to turn that man down. Any unmarried one, that is." Her body is firm despite the wine on her breath as she digs in, perfectly willing to sprawl on top of Maeve, refusing to give ground.

"Why do you care?" Maeve grits her teeth and shoves the pirate again. In general she likes the warmth and comfort of other bodies when she sleeps—likely a remnant of old habits, when she and her siblings slept in a tangled pile to keep warm outdoors in northern winters—but she does not want Talia on top of her. She reeks of sour wine, which normally isn't a big deal, but Maeve's daughter doesn't like it and her belly lurches dangerously.

"I guess I don't care, really." Talia shoves back just as hard as Maeve shoved her. "It's just, you know, not normal. I've never seen him turned down before. I guess it happens. Nobody can get lucky all the time. But he tends to inspire loyalty in people. Altruism. All those do-gooder things. And you're part of this crew, aren't you? The do-gooder-est of do-gooders. Do-best of do-gooders?" Her drunken mind tries to wander off but gets confused and abandons the attempt. "I was going somewhere with that."

"Yeah. Out of my bunk." Maeve kicks her shin.

Talia curses but doesn't give ground. "Right, I remember. Doubar says you turned our boy down. He's really upset about it. I'm not, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't make sense. And I don't think that's the wine talking."

Maeve tries pressing close to the wall, breathing the smell of warm wood, but it doesn't help. Talia's still on top of her, which she hates, and her daughter still thinks she stinks. "You don't really want to give him a child," she says, gritting her teeth. She may puke on Talia in another moment if the pirate doesn't move. "Why should I want to?" She tries breathing through her mouth, but it doesn't really help.

"Because you're permanent," Talia says, yawning. "Or as permanent as a girl gets around here. Which isn't very, in case you were wondering, but setting that aside, you wouldn't be here if you didn't like the man. Why say no? You're not a sailor, sweetheart. Not at heart. Not like me or Sinbad. If you say you're here for love of the sea, I won't believe you."

She didn't say no. But Talia has her all wrong anyway. "I'm not here for him! I have my own quest, which has nothing to do with you." And precious little to do with Sinbad, technically, but she and this crew are all so closely intertwined now that it's pointless to make that distinction. She's here to save her brother, which requires Rumina's defeat or death. Besting Rumina will require Dim-Dim's tutelage. And she can't recover Dim-Dim without Sinbad's help. It's a daunting set of challenges and, when looked at in that light, she maybe understands Dermott's frustration a little better. How is she supposed to find Dim-Dim, defeat Rumina, and break a curse while caring for a baby? So far she hasn't been able to do any of it even without the added burden of a child.

But it's far, far too late to ask these questions now. She made her choice. Her daughter lives within her, an innocent soul as much in need of protection as Sinbad's. Her path is clear; there's no way out but forward and no place in her heart for regrets.

"A quest?" Talia yawns. "Yeah, something about the old man, right? I never met him." Her sharp chin drops forward onto Maeve's shoulder. It digs painfully—probably unintentional, but even so. Maeve pushes her hand back, catching a palmful of Talia's face, and shoves.

"Hey!" The pirate curses and kicks off her boots. "You know, you really don't play well with others. No wonder Doubar doesn't like you."

That stings, though Maeve will never admit it out loud. Doubar did like her. Loved her as much as she loved him—or at least she thought he did. "Doubar's never climbed into my bunk, so how would he know?"

Talia snorts. She's slowly falling asleep despite Maeve's continued pushes. "Maybe it'd loosen you up if he did. You ever seen the big guy naked? Well, duh, you live here." She laughs again, sour wine heavy on the warm night air. "He's even better endowed than his baby brother."

"I really, really don't care."

"Is it Rongar you like, then? Strong, silent type? Tall, dark, and handsome? I could see it. Though the lack of a tongue is a mark against him in bed, I'll admit. Still." She stretches and rolls further on top of Maeve's blanket-wrapped form, apparently deciding an aerial attack is better than a land war.

"I didn't come south looking for any man!" Maeve snaps. "Get off of me!" Talia's drunk, yes, but that doesn't mean Maeve is any more forgiving of the way the pirate's talking about men Maeve considers her brothers.

"A woman, then?" Talia snickers. "I wouldn't put it past you. That would explain a lot, actually. Why you'd turn down your captain."

That's it. Maeve turns over and shoves her hard. Talia hits the floor with a sharp thud.

"Yes," Maeve snaps, out of patience. She's positive Sinbad won't toss her overboard no matter how much noise she makes, threats be damned. She climbs to her feet, abandoning any attempt at sleeping in her bunk tonight. Even if Talia wises up and remains on the floor, she still reeks of wine. "A woman. An evil sorceress, the same one who sold Sinbad's soul. I came south to kill her, and eventually I will. Get out of my way." She leaves her cabin with swift strides.

Talia probably snores anyway, she consoles herself. Wrapped in her blanket, she climbs topside. Trying to share that tiny cabin with a snoring, smelly drunk would lead to one of them killing the other. Sinbad wouldn't like that. She bites hard, clamping her jaw down on nothing.

Honestly, she'd like nothing more than to cross the black galley, crawl into Sinbad's bunk despite the danger, and let him hold her for the rest of the night. Everyone else can get fucked for all she cares. But she can't. She does her best to comfort herself with Wren's words instead: she's not alone. Even if she has nothing else, she has her daughter.

Down below, the night seethes with tension. Up here, all is peaceful. Stars prick the sky, a single candle in a lantern above the tiller. The man on watch lifts his hand in greeting but does not bother her. She's grateful. She breathes the salt-sweet Mediterranean air, softer and sweeter than either the chill of her homeland or the oppressive Arabian sun. Yes. This is fine. Better than staying below. Her daughter doesn't like the close, stuffy air, the strong odors of food and people, but this will do nicely. She sits next to a large coil of rope and curls on her side, pillowing her head on the spirals of twisted hemp, breathing the clean smell of the fibers, the salt of the water. The man on duty doesn't question her.

She tucks her blanket tight around her body. Underneath, she rubs her belly gently. Yes, this is better, she decides. She can't be trapped in her cabin by the smells of cooking food if she doesn't sleep there. She closes her eyes in the soft night wind. None of this is her daughter's fault and she refuses to be angry with her. But she does wish, not for the first time, that she had a spell to hurry along the next few moons.

* * *

"Maeve? Maeve!" A gentle hand touches her shoulder, shakes her softly.

She pulls her head out of her red blanket, blinking blearily. "What? What's the matter?" Oh, she aches. Sleeping on hard surfaces has never bothered her before, but apparently her daughter doesn't like it. She winces as she pulls herself upright. Dawn has just broken, white and pale gold, the sea quiet around them. She digs her fingers into her eyes, feeling the ship bob lazily underneath her. It doesn't bother her belly today—maybe sleeping in the open air was a good choice despite how she hurts.

"What's going on?" Sinbad crouches close, hovering with concern. She can see it in the snap of his blue eyes, the tension in his hands as he struggles not to touch her. "Ahmed!" He gestures swiftly to the man on duty. "What happened? Why didn't you wake me?"

"Nothing happened," the man protests, rushing to his captain's side. "She was there all night. She didn't seem in distress, so I let her be."

"Which I appreciate." Maeve pulls her hair back, brushing away the bright strands that cling gently to her skin. She rubs her eyes again and inhales deeply. "Let's just say that Talia and I didn't see eye-to-eye last night, and fighting over it wasn't worth being pitched overboard." She smiles dryly at her captain.

He looks horrified. "I'd never toss you overboard. Doubar probably. Talia certainly. Not you."

"I know." Though the confirmation is nice. Oh, she badly wants to kiss him. Soothe the troubled look that still mars his face. She hugs her blanket tighter instead.

"What didn't you see eye-to-eye about?" he asks, sounding resigned.

"Who belonged on the floor."

He really doesn't like that. She can tell by the tense muscle in his pretty jaw, the way his mouth almost disappears. She forces her own mouth not to smile but she can't stop the prickle of satisfaction inside.

"I'm sorry," he says, touching her gently, a brief squeeze of her shoulder before he has to drop his hand. She's the definition of forbidden fruit right now, as he knows all too well. "Next time there's a disagreement, wake me. Wake the ship, I don't care. We'll hang a hammock in there today, and fix the spare cabin as soon as possible."

This is perfectly acceptable, as long as Talia gets the hammock. Maeve's belly can handle the rocking of the ship most of the time but she doesn't know that she could bear sleeping in a swing. Her daughter's going to have to get used to the movement of the water, though. Her parents are nomads. She'll be born on the sea, raised on the sea. It's in her blood, her birthright from her father.

"Are you okay?" he asks, watching her carefully. His hands can't touch her but his eyes do, sweeping over her with care, though she's bundled to the neck in her blanket and he can't actually see anything but her face.

"Fine. Better than I would have been otherwise, I think. Does Talia snore?"

He looks at her blankly as she climbs to her feet, ignoring his offer of an outstretched hand. "How should I know?"

She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Aye, but I never actually slept with her. I mean, I did. But I didn't. It's a...what's that word Firouz uses? When you don't want to say what you actually mean."

"A euphemism."

"That's the one. I slept with her. I never _slept_ with her."

And for some reason she can't fathom, that pleases Maeve. Maybe she should be irritated or jealous, angry at his admission that he has indeed fucked Talia at some point in their past. But she assumed as much since their first meeting, and he very clearly ejected the piratess from his cabin last night. Sinbad irritates her in many ways, but in this case she just can't get upset. He's doing his best. And he let Talia leave his bed—or wherever they were—after fucking her. He doesn't let Maeve.

"You're really okay?"

She nods. She's sore, but her belly is calm and really that's more important. She smiles at him warmly, though she knows she shouldn't, not in daylight. She's better than him at keeping her hands to herself, but neither is good about their eyes, their smiles. It's hard to resist the tug of his presence, the easy way he slouches against the railing, at ease but watchful, ever alert for danger. She's always respected his diligence as a captain, a leader, even before she liked him as a person.

She should go below—should leave him to his early morning rounds, his inspection of his ship at first light. She knows this. Still she lingers. She can hear the day's cook crashing through the galley, can smell the first hint of his cookfire. None of these are welcome right now, so she lets herself be persuaded by the cool morning, soft as sweet water, the man watching her with gentle eyes.

"What's the first step in fixing the galley?" She already knows the answer, but he likes to talk and right now she's just as happy to hear him.

"Washing and sanding the scorched parts. They're weaknesses in the construction. Can't build back up without a strong foundation." He eyes her cautiously, a look she knows well. He's choosing his words with care. "Is that something you'll do?"

She laughs. "You're nervous about asking me to clean."

"I don't want my head bitten off."

It's a reasonable concern, but in this case he has no need to fear. "I will not be anyone's maid. I refuse. But that's not what you're asking."

His body visibly relaxes at her answer. "No. I'd never expect you to do anything the rest of us won't."

"And that, captain, is the key." She smiles at him. Sometimes she really can't help it. "Dim-Dim did always say you were smarter than you look."

He grins back. "And that's exactly the sort of backhanded compliment I expect from you, _mo chailín."_

She breathes the cool morning, tucks her blanket tight around her shoulders, and lets the small contentment of the moment seep through her. When she thinks about the next few moons the fear is almost too much to handle—too many unknowns, too much room for disaster. But taken moment by moment, just like this, it's manageable. She can love him at arm's length. She can take Doubar's anger. Her brother's absence. One moment, one heartbeat, at a time.

"I'm sorry," he says, switching languages. "_Tá brón orm_. About last night. Truly."

"Why?" She watches him levelly. He's a good man. She wasn't happy when Dim-Dim told her his former ward would be appearing on the Isle of Dawn and a journey with him would comprise the next level of her studies. He didn't tell her—perhaps didn't know—that he would himself be waylaid by a demon, forcing her to teach herself as she struggles to find her master. But in leaving her with Sinbad, Dim-Dim gave her far more than he took with him. Wherever he is, she hopes he knows that.

"I was asleep. Dreaming about Malabar." A small smile flickers at one corner of his mouth. "You mentioned it. Have you been?"

"No."

"It's hot, and maybe rainier than Eire. But the thick jungle breaking onto soft beaches...if ever this world existed without sorcery, those jungles are where magic was born." He clears his throat. "Anyway. I was asleep. Then Talia was there."

She watches him, the discomfort he holds in his limbs, the way he fights to remain still despite what looks like embarrassment. It's adorable, actually, but she doesn't want his distress. "It's okay, Sinbad. Why would you apologize for that?"

He looks at her oddly. "Why aren't you mad?"

"Why would I be?" Her eyes travel the well-loved angles of his face. He really is a very good-looking man. She held that against him for...longer than she should have. Nursed a grudge because of what those pretty eyes, that lazy smile, made her feel. She's never been so swayed by a handsome man, and she did not like it when it happened with this one. She fought it despite Dim-Dim's assertion that she could trust him. But fighting Sinbad, as she's learned over and over in the time since, is an exercise in futility.

"I'm yours." His eyes are steady, no qualm as he says it. "Your _céile_. I may not entirely understand the difference between that and a husband, but I know enough. It's a pair-bond. There's no place for a harem in it."

She watches him, amused. "Do you want one?"

He winces. "No. It would bring far more trouble than pleasure, and you're all the woman—and trouble—I need."

She laughs, which she suspects was his intention. She's noticed lately that he does that—says things deliberately to make her smile. She appreciates it more than she could ever tell him. Without Dermott, and with Doubar so mad at her, laughter is in short supply these days. "_M__o grá thú_, beautiful man. I love you. Talia can't change that."

He looks relieved. She's glad. He's carrying as much fear as she is, and neither of them need any more. Everything is in flux right now, the foundations of their lives torn loose by the curse hanging over his soul. He needs something to believe in as much as she does. He can't lean on their absent mentor and can't be honest with his brother, but he has her. She can be strong for him, just as he is for her.

"Are you really okay with taking your nephews for the _teas_? We can still say no."

"Our nephews," she says mildly. "Face it—you're stuck with us now. And it's fine. It'll be chaos, but when is this life ever not?"

"When it's just the two of us." His eyes watch her. She knows that look very, very well. She knows exactly what he wants, and that he can't have it. Not with her, anyway. Talia would happily give it to him, but he doesn't want her. Despite herself, she can't help a low, dry laugh.

"What's funny? I meant it."

"Talia says you're good horizontal." She snickers.

"Oh, good gods." He passes a hand over his eyes. "Don't listen to a word that woman says. She's the best card player around, and she got that way because she knows how to lie. Far better than I ever will."

"Yeah, but in this case she happens to be right. I have firsthand experience."

He sighs, a long-suffering sound that leaves her caught between sympathy and amusement. "Do you want me to put her ashore, firebrand? I will. Just say the word. It's your call."

"Of course I want you to. I want my life back." She stares into the brightening day, the heat of the sun just beginning to kiss her cheek. "But getting rid of her won't solve our biggest problems, and you're right. As annoying as she is, I need a decoy."

"Name someone else, someone you'd rather have aboard, and I'll find her."

But Maeve shakes her head before he stops speaking. "This game is as dangerous for a decoy as it is for me. Why would I intentionally do that to someone I like?"

Sinbad's chin dips in acknowledgment. "Point. And who knows? She may not stay anyway after I set her straight."

"She will if you agree to help her get her ship back. Which you will."

"We're asking her to do something dangerous. It's only fair."

"I wasn't complaining." She wants to touch him. She always wants to touch him, but sometimes the desire hits her hard from out of nowhere, like now, as she watches him struggle to keep everything together, to please everyone, to be the competent leader when inside part of him has to be falling to pieces. She wants to solve this for him, to shoulder at least part of the burden he bears, but she can't. She can't even hold his hand.

"This won't last forever, Maeve."

His words are softly soothing. It's both a blessing and a curse—nothing lasts forever. Right now she chooses to see the blessing. "I know. But just so you know, I don't want Talia for a midwife."

He chuckles. "You already have one of those."

"Maybe." She doesn't want to think about Keely right now. This rending will be easier to put right than the one with Dermott, but that doesn't mean it will be effortless. Or pleasant. And the way she feels right now she'd rather have Cairpra anyway, though whether Cairpra knows anything at all about midwifery she has no idea. But Cairpra gives her the same solidly comforting feeling that Dim-Dim does, and that's something she misses more with each passing day. "Can we return to Basra? Not immediately—I know we need repairs and to deal with Talia's ship. But before Samhain."

"Whatever you want." He seems pleased with this request, pleased that she's asking something of him. Something he can give. "Depending on how much trouble Talia's got herself in on the mainland, we may have to anyway. Omar owes me a small fortune, and money may be the only way to get the Black Rose out of our hair and back on her own ship."

"Speaking of." Maeve winces as a curl of smoke laced with the smell of cooking food wafts from below. "I need to go roust the rose and get my herbs before that smell gets any worse."

His bright eyes dim, watching her unhappily. "I'd bear this for you if I could."

"I know." Fuck, she loves him. Even as he's the cause of the creeping nausea in her belly. "But you can't. So let me do what I have to, and take me to Basra sometime."

"As soon as I can. I promise."

* * *

Maeve's door is shut when she goes below, but she doesn't care. That's her cabin, not Talia's. She pushes it open, reaching for the key to her trunk even before she sheds the blanket from her shoulders. She doesn't usually bother locking the chest Queen Nadia gave her, but she doesn't want Talia snooping through—potentially pocketing—her belongings. To that end she shakes out her downy blanket and folds it, ready to place in the trunk.

"Dawn's here," she says, and kicks the wooden frame of her bunk for good measure. "Shouldn't you be pestering someone by now?"

A weary groan emerges from under the brown wool blanket.

Maeve kicks the bunk again. She knows a hangover when she hears it, and she's not the least repentant. Not when the pirate kicked her out of her own bunk.

"Knock it off, hothead." Talia buries her face in Maeve's thin pillow.

"You better not have bugs. And what did you call me?" She eyes Talia's bulk under the blanket, unsure yet whether to take offense. Sailors tend to settle disputes with fists, as Doubar intimated last night, and she's not averse to a good brawl. Sinbad probably won't let her, however, considering what she's carrying. One boot in the wrong place could spell disaster for them all.

Talia's face peers out from under the blanket. "You have strange hair. You throw fire. You blow like a volcano. I'm just calling it like I see it." She holds her head gingerly as she slowly turns and sits up. "Oh, gods. Every time I tell myself it's the last time."

"And every time you're lying." Maeve has little pity. Not after last night. She retrieves her new jar of herbs from her trunk. It smells softly of mint, which is better than unwashed skin and old wine. This herbal mixture would probably work reasonably well on a hangover, too, but she has no intention of sharing.

"Hey, that's nice." Talia squints through a cracked-open eye at Maeve's downy blanket. She leans forward and rubs the red fabric between her fingers.

"Keep your grubby paws off my blanket. You can have that one." Maeve nods at the brown wool in Talia's lap. It may have to be deloused now anyway, for all she knows.

"I'll trade you."

"You will not. This one's from home." Maeve yanks her blanket free of Talia's appraising fingers and drops it in the chest, then locks the trunk swiftly.

"Home?" Talia reaches for her boots, moving as slowly and painfully as a wizened old man. "Oh, hells, this head. I thought you all must sleep under, I don't know, bark or something."

Maeve glares. She's used to insults about her people, but not usually so early in the morning. Not on the Nomad, which used to be a safe space for her. A home. "My people don't care to live in cities. That doesn't mean we're as backward as you seem to think."

Talia lifts one shoulder in a painful shrug. She pulls herself slowly to her feet. "What's that smell? What do you have?" Her squinted eyes find the jar in Maeve's hands.

"None of your business." Maeve backs swiftly out of the tiny cabin. She needs to get a mug of water and return topside before her belly gets any worse. Doubar mutters moodily at her when she slips past him as he stokes the cooking fire.

"Don't put me on the cooking rotation, big guy," Talia says, draping herself over the table. "You won't like the results."

"Why can't Sinbad find a decent woman who cooks?" the first mate growls. "Get out of here!" he barks at Maeve as she passes behind him again with a mug. "If you won't work, at least leave me to it!"

She's tempted to throw her water in his face, but then she'd just have to fetch more. She snaps her fingers instead, and the cooking fire roars in response, rising high, singeing the hairs on his knuckles. "There. I cooked."

Talia cackles, but Doubar's furious. "The devil take you, woman! I wish for all the world that Scratch had claimed you instead of my brother!"

Maeve knows. Doubar would rather Scratch had claimed anyone else in the world besides Sinbad, even himself. It still doesn't make his words any easier to take. She's carrying his niece, but despite Sinbad's promise, she doesn't know that this will fix anything. Doubar doesn't want a niece. He wants a nephew. Maeve can save Sinbad from Scratch, but she can't give him that.

"Oh, my belly. My head. Don't make me laugh." Talia groans and lays herself across the table.

"Nothing to laugh about, girl," Doubar mutters, rubbing the singed hair of his knuckles against his _sirwal_ before resuming his task.

"Apparently days of nothing but apricots can't sour your belly but a night of Cretan wine can." Maeve shakes her jar, then pours a tumble of dried herbs into her mug of water. She touches it briefly; steam swirls and rises.

"I smell mint." Talia steals the jar. "You weren't out with us last night. Why're you dosing?"

"DOSING? WITH WHAT? I WISH PEOPLE WOULD ASK ME BEFORE THEY START SELF-MEDICATING. YOU CAN'T JUST BUY A POTION OFF SOME RANDOM FORTUNE-TELLER AND EXPECT IT TO WORK." Firouz stumbles into the galley looking almost as bad as Talia. Behind him, Rongar looks far more alert.

Talia passes him the jar.

Maeve grabs for it. "Give that back!"

Firouz can't hear her. He sniffs the jar's contents, pours a little into the palm of his hand and examines it. "PEPPERMINT, OF COURSE. SPEARMINT. FENNEL. ROSEHIPS. BETTER THAN I MIGHT HAVE EXPECTED. WHAT ELSE?"

Maeve knocks his hand, spilling the bits of dried plant matter, just as Rongar firmly lifts the jar from Firouz's grasp and hands it gently back to her. She flashes him a grateful look. Most of the ingredients in Keely's childbearing tea are basic ones used the world over for many purposes—to settle the stomach, to soothe and fortify the body. But if he started examining each component, he'd find at least one or two that are only used for one very specific purpose. Wren specifically said there was raspberry leaf in there, and even Maeve knows only women with child drink that.

"Thank you," she says, shooting Rongar a grateful look and tucking her jar under her arm. He deserves to be first mate instead of Doubar, as far as she's concerned, for all the help he's been. She would have died from the monkshood poisoning without him, and now he's saved her from Firouz's inadvertent discovery.

He inclines his head to her with regal grace. Not for the first time, she wonders where the silent man came from. Even Sinbad doesn't know. His secrets are his own to keep, of course, and she'd never pry. She knows herself the need to keep some things silent. Still she wonders.

"SEEMS A HARMLESS ENOUGH PANACEA, ANYWAY," Firouz says, wiping his hand on his leg before settling at the table. "WOULDN'T BE A TERRIBLE HANGOVER CURE."

Talia's head perks up at this, but Maeve backs away from the table with her cup in her hand, her jar under her arm. "No," she says very firmly. These herbs are not costly and would be easy to find in almost any marketplace, but she doesn't know Keely's ratios and she can't exactly go around asking for raspberry leaf out in the open. Under those circumstances, she's not willing to share.

"Easy, hothead. I'm not going to steal your precious plants."

"You just did," Maeve mutters.

"You're no fun, you know that?" Talia closes her eyes. Doubar lets out a rough bark of agreement. "You need to lighten up. Life doesn't have to be so...so _serious_ all the time. I mean, I get that Sinbad's in trouble, but you wouldn't help him so I don't think you get to pout."

"Well said, my lovely rose!" Doubar calls from his spot by the fire.

Firouz looks to Rongar for a translation, but the silent man is watching Maeve. He expects her to fight back, but what can she do? What can she say, when refuting Talia will give Rumina grounds to kill her? She shakes her head tightly, tightens her grip on her mug, and ducks topside. She's retreating, and she hates it.

"Hey." Sinbad sees her as she emerges into the warming sun. He's finished his morning inspection of the deck and he crosses swiftly to her. "Are they—" His words cease as Talia's voice drifts up through the slats in the door.

"I don't know about that one, big guy. Tell me again why she's here? Nobody likes her."

Beside Maeve, Sinbad goes rigid. She watches as his jaw clamps down hard, can almost hear the strain on his teeth.

"Don't."

"But—"

"Don't." She inhales slowly. She's been at war with the world since she was small. Since she was born. This isn't new. The only thing that's different this time is how much it hurts.

"But they can't—"

"How are you going to stop them?" she demands. "You can't. So go eat breakfast, and leave it alone."

Doubar's roaring belly laugh sounds from below.

"But Doubar—"

"I can handle Doubar." She can. She refuses to place any further burden on Sinbad, which is what turning this mess over to him will do. That's his brother, and the brother who helped raise him at that. She knows how she'd feel were Sinbad feuding with Dermott. She refuses to do that to him. Bonds break—all the time. Sinbad can't afford to lose his brother. She can walk this tightrope, dance this dance where she absorbs the brunt of Doubar's ire, leaving Sinbad unscathed. She has to.

Because, deep down, she's afraid. If she forced him to make a choice, which she never would, he won't choose her. He loves her, but he loves his brother more. And she'd rather continue like this, pretending it's her and her sailor against the world, than face the reality that, in fact, she fights alone. Dermott left her. Sinbad loves her, needs her womb, but his deepest tie will always be his brother. Not her.

So she will not probe this bruise, will not test his resolve. She holds her cup in her hands and stares into the rising sun. Tearless and clear-headed. As always. "Go to breakfast. Let me settle my stomach."

He goes.


	24. Chapter 24

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

They're in town, combing the small market for repair supplies, when Sinbad feels Rongar's gentle, quiet presence at his back. He turns. The Moor watches him, steady as always, but there's a waiting, expectant quality to his silence, a hint of tension in the set of his broad shoulders, the line of his jaw.

So, then. This wouldn't be Sinbad's choice of time or location to do this, but Rongar isn't easy to sway once he's made up his mind and right now he clearly has. Sinbad looks at him, turns and rapidly counts the number of familiar heads scattered around the market, assuring himself that all is well. Everyone is accounted for, no one bleeding or in the midst of a heated argument. He inhales deeply and turns to his crewmember.

"Well?" One of the many things he appreciates about Rongar—the man never beats around the bush. Never wanders off on tangents like Firouz or gets flustered like Doubar. He's direct. He communicates exactly what he thinks and expects the same in return.

Rongar's dark eyes flick to Talia. She's bickering happily with Doubar as they weigh out a measure of wooden pegs on a shopkeeper's scale. Doubar says something that makes her chuckle and she pokes him in the belly. Rongar deliberately turns enough for his eyes to find Maeve and Firouz inspecting a sample of tar. His gaze returns to Sinbad and he stands expectantly, awaiting his captain's explanation. He's done being patient.

"I know." Sinbad steps forward, shoulder to shoulder with his comrade, pretending to inspect the wares laid out on rough wooden tables and threadbare rugs before them. "I know." He speaks under his breath, low enough the shop minders can't hear him but he has no doubt Rongar's sensitive ears can. "But she has to be protected. Rumina will kill her. You know she will." He clears his throat and raises his voice. "Nails?" he asks the shopkeeper. "Nothing fancy. Pig iron is fine."

The man turns away to dig through stacks of boxes and trays behind his table. Rongar points very deliberately at Doubar and shakes his head firmly.

Yeah, Sinbad knows. "No one's happy," he murmurs, drumming his fingers on the table as he waits for the shopkeeper. "Doubar can join the club." This situation is tearing them apart from the inside out, which he suspects is exactly what Scratch intends. Sinbad and Maeve are miserable. Doubar's miserable. Even Firouz is miserable. He has no idea what's going on but he can feel the tension in the air as well as everyone else can. He knows he's missing something, he just doesn't know what. "What do you want me to do?"

The shopkeeper turns around with a tray of rough, squared-off nails. Sinbad pretends to inspect them, digging through the pile. "She's my world," he says softly. "He's my brother. And the witch is always watching." Even now he's hesitant to speak. Even just a murmur. Even for a moment. "I can't tell him. But she needs a decoy."

Rongar lowers his chin slightly in acknowledgment, but he still doesn't look appeased. He puts his palms together and then tilts them apart, mimicking the opening of a book. He nods in Maeve's direction.

"The library? Where her sister is? She doesn't want to go and I won't make her." Not until he has to. He probably should, but Maeve would see that order as a betrayal and he has no idea what a betrayal of that magnitude, not to mention such a long separation, would do to them. He's not willing to risk it unless he has no other choice. Maeve says she can handle Doubar and Talia, and all Sinbad can do is trust her. She'll tell him if things get too hard. Won't she? She's stubborn, but she knows how much is riding on this child. How much they need her to stay safe and healthy, for everyone's sake. She's not stupid and not usually reckless. If she says she can handle Doubar, he has to believe her.

He pays for a gross of nails; Rongar hefts the coarse sack they're poured into.

"I know you're not happy," Sinbad says, lowering his voice even further, speaking almost into his crewmember's ear. "What would you have me do? I can't force her, but I'm trying my best to protect her." He's resigned to feeling this unsettling, gnawing fear for the foreseeable future—until Samhain at the earliest. If all goes well Maeve will be big with child then, and no one will be able to deny that she's fulfilled the first requirement of the Tam Lin Protocol. On that night she'll challenge Scratch for the right to Sinbad's soul. What that challenge will require of her no one has expressly said, but it's moons away. Sinbad has plenty of time to worry about that as the date nears.

Rongar looks one final time at Doubar, a long look full of more than Sinbad can decipher. Sorrow. Regret. He turns to Sinbad, a very clear warning on his face.

"No. Everything will be fine. Eventually. Doubar will see how wrong he was."

Rongar shakes his head firmly. He points to his eyes, then to the first mate. It's a gesture he's made countless times, but never at one of the crew before. Despite his belief in his brother, his insistence that all will be well if they can just manage to plow through some more time, Sinbad feels unease churning slowly in his gut. It's a sick sort of anxious feeling, a heavy sense of foreboding. Rongar never worries for nothing. If he's choosing to speak now, Sinbad needs to listen.

But that's Doubar. His brother. He's angry, yes, and acts on emotion, not forethought. But he has a soft spot for their resident sorceress and always has, ever since she and Dermott led them to the island where Rumina had Sinbad imprisoned with her beasties. He wanted her to bear Sinbad's child, wanted her to be the one to free him from this curse. His anger now stems from his belief that she refused.

No. No, he refuses to believe Doubar would ever hurt Maeve. He's not capable of it. Even Talia would never actually harm her, no matter how much they dislike each other. Talia's a forgive-and-forget kind of girl. Mostly. And Sinbad would never allow anyone to set foot on his ship who would hurt any member of his crew, especially Maeve. Especially now.

He allows himself another glance at her, unable to stop his eyes from seeking out her tall, graceful form. He watches as Firouz hands coins to the stallkeeper and both she and the inventor lift casks of tar under their arms. She's fine, he tells himself. Even smiling. She's strong. She won't let a few comments from Doubar and Talia disturb her for long. Her red hair lifts in the warm wind and she laughs at Firouz's booming prattle.

"He deafened himself with science," she says to the stallkeeper, patting Firouz's shoulder affectionately with her free hand. "Temporarily only, we hope."

"I'VE CONCLUDED THAT READING LIPS IS AN ART FORM," Firouz bellows as they leave the stall. "ONE I HAVE LITTLE TALENT FOR."

"You'll learn if you have to," Maeve says gently, slowing her words so he can follow the shape of her mouth as she speaks. The deaf people they met on the Isle of Bliss needed no such concessions, but Sinbad supposes Firouz is only just learning. "Here, give me that. I'll take this back to the ship while you continue with Sinbad."

"We'll all go," Sinbad says, stepping forward and taking the heavy cask from her instead. "We have what we need to begin repairs. There will be a delivery of lumber to the ship later today."

Lumber was expensive, as he should have remembered it would be on an island, but he's willing to pay any price to complete repairs as quickly as possible. He wants Talia safely settled away from Maeve, wants all the tension on his ship to calm. Life with those two aboard and Doubar so angry will never be pleasant, exactly, and Sinbad's well aware. He can tolerate a simmer. Right now, though, they're all in danger of boiling over. They need some space—in Maeve and Talia's case, quite literally. They need some peace.

As they slowly begin the walk back to the wharves, Talia appears at Sinbad's side. Her eyes squint against the sun and he can tell she's still feeling the effects of her night out, but she knocks her shoulder into his affably enough and she doesn't stumble as she walks. "So, you want to clue me in on what's going on? I thought I knew last night, but now I'm thinking not so much."

He shifts the wooden cask under his arm. He wants to tell her the truth—wants to tell them all the truth. Lying does not come easily to him, and the guilt of all the lies he's had to tell these past moons weighs heavy on his shoulders and conscience. But he has to remember why. Rumina could be watching. Scratch could be watching. They can't know Maeve is carrying. He frowns slightly as he considers how to answer Talia's question. He's honestly a little surprised Scratch hasn't shown up to gloat yet. They've heard nothing from the demon since this whole mess started. That...doesn't seem like Scratch. But Sinbad is grateful for the respite, no matter the reason. They need all the calm they can get.

"I don't know what Doubar told you last night," he says, glancing over his shoulder at his brother, who's attempting to speak with Firouz. Considering Doubar's bushy facial hair obscuring his mouth and his famous lack of patience, they're not getting very far.

"Listen, I'm not stupid. Okay? My brain is nowhere near your scientist's level, but I'm not stupid. I thought the story Doubar told me last night was pretty believable—I mean, by your standards, you know? Crazy, but believable. You made a witch mad, got your soul stolen by a demon, and now you need a pregnant girlfriend to bail you out of trouble. If it were anyone other than you, I'd say you ate some bad berries and tell you to sleep it off. Maybe turn the fever dream into a great tavern tale once your head's back to normal. But it's you. And because it's you, I believed the big guy. You're very good at finding trouble, especially lady trouble. But after last night I don't know what to think."

Sinbad inclines his head to her respectfully. She has every right to be furious with him this morning after he kicked her out of his bed, especially if Doubar gave her the impression she'd be welcome there. Her sober reaction to the events of last night is actually much calmer and more rational than he deserves. He refused her, kicked her out of his bunk, and made her fight with Maeve over the tiny sliver of female space on his ship. He honestly hadn't thought through the ramifications of that choice, just assumed she'd be more comfortable bedded down with one other woman than with the rest of his men in the crew's cabin. Judging by where he found Maeve this morning, that turned out to be a bad call. His sorceress chose judicious retreat rather than to knuckle down and fight, but that choice isn't like her. It isn't like Talia, either. He's probably lucky their disagreement last night didn't end in some measure of injury.

He glances at Talia as they walk. She has a pink scarf tied around her head, and she wears close-fitting trousers like a northern man, as is her habit. She's not particularly pretty, but she doesn't need to be. She has such self-confidence that it doesn't matter. People stare at Maeve because of her exotic, fiery beauty...and that very big, very blatant broadsword she carries. They stare at Talia because of her swagger.

"It's...complicated," Sinbad says slowly. He weighs each word before it leaves his tongue. He has to be vague enough not to compromise Maeve's safety, direct enough not to irritate Talia.

"Things are always complicated when you're involved." Talia shrugs this off.

"More than usual this time."

"More complicated than our sweet Doubar was able to convey, huh?" Talia looks back at the first mate affectionately. "That much is very clear."

"So much more." She doesn't know the half of it. Neither does Doubar.

"So let's just start at the beginning. Is there really a price on your soul?"

Wordlessly he pulls open the flaps of his shirt with his free hand, exposing the skull-shaped mark over his heart, a scar that will not heal.

"Hey, we match now!" Talia rubs her thumb over her own tattoo—an ordinary ink tattoo, starkly black against the tan skin of her left breast, which she very much enjoys showing off.

"I'll take one like yours over this any day," Sinbad says tightly. He wants the thing gone. Maeve vowed she'd sear it off if it doesn't disappear on its own and he's only too happy to let her. He'd rather bear a scar borne of her love than Scratch's ownership.

"What's the going price for a soul these days?" Talia's hand drops from her tattoo and she looks at Sinbad's brand speculatively.

He opens his mouth to chide her, warn her against whatever it is she's thinking, then stops. "You know, actually, I don't know."

"Your soul was sold, but you don't know what for?"

"Not really." He frowns. "I'm still not entirely sure she had the right to sell it in the first place, but I have to act on the assumption she did. If I don't and it turns out I'm wrong…" His voice trails off. This isn't a fate he wants to think about, and it would be even worse if his own negligence caused it to happen. He can't just sit back and do nothing.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Hedge your bets. Practically the first rule any pirate learns. But...so you're saying people can just...sell other people's souls to the devil? Randomly? Since when?"

"No," Sinbad says, very swiftly and very firmly. He doesn't want Talia getting any ideas about that. "You can't. It's complicated, I told you. I reneged on a deal, I think, which gave Rumina leverage. We won't know whether the bargain she struck for my soul is legitimate until Scratch tries to collect."

"As summer turns to winter, yeah, I got that part." She scratches her nose. "So you went back on a deal, huh? I never thought you had it in you."

Sinbad feels the beginning of a headache coming on. "I told you, it's complicated. The whole mess is complicated."

"I'm beginning to see. You may need someone slimier than a pirate to bail you out of this one, my friend. Do you know any lady lawyers?"

He snorts. "No. The closest, I think, was a harpy named Alana, but I killed her." Are harpies and humans even biologically compatible? He opens his mouth to ask Firouz, then quickly shuts it again. He doesn't actually want to know, and he especially doesn't want to start a shouting match about it.

"Mm. I don't know if harpies are slimier than lawyers." Talia shrugs this off. "A she-troll maybe. _Maybe_."

Sinbad feels his gorge rise. "No more suggestions, please." Especially not with Maeve so close. Talia seems to find this thread of conversation amusing but he doubts his sorceress would. Although, considering her reaction last night, what does he know?

"So here's the kicker. Unless Doubar was wrong, you need a girl. You specifically came looking for me. But you, dear captain, kicked me out of your bunk last night." She stares at him as they walk, steady and even. "Explain that. And I mean really explain it. Don't just tell me it's complicated."

He wants to. He wants to tell her everything she wants to know—everything she needs to know. It's not fair to ask her to do this without giving her an honest account of what she's in for. As Maeve's decoy she's in just as much danger as Maeve is.

"I can't tell you everything," he says quietly. "I wish I could, but I can't. Rumina warned us that she's watching. Spying. I don't know when. I don't know how often. But I'm not willing to risk her overhearing anything she shouldn't."

"Watching you?" Talia's eyebrows lift in surprise. "All the time? That's pretty kinky."

It absolutely is not. "It's not okay, and my patience ran out long ago. But there's nothing I can do until All Souls Night. Nothing except be careful and watch my tongue." He hefts the cask under his arm and looks at her. Looks at Maeve and Rongar in front of them, listens to Doubar's rising impatience with Firouz behind. "You said last night that you should probably be running the other way. You weren't wrong. This situation's a mess. I know it; you know it. But I need your help, and in return I'll do whatever I can to help you get your ship back." He'll try talking to the authorities in Attalia. Using his name or flashing Omar's medallion often gains him favors from otherwise indifferent authorities. He'll even buy her ship's release if need be. Both Omar and the caliph owe him quite a bit, and even if the rescue of Talia's ship costs him all of it, he'll consider it money well spent. He's not just doing a favor for an old friend. He's buying Maeve's safety—his child's safety. That consideration comes before all others.

"I'm listening." Talia folds her arms over her chest, obscuring that tattoo, and waits expectantly.

"Just...just stick around for a while. That's all I'm asking. I know you and Maeve don't get along. I know Doubar's angry and he's only going to get worse as time passes. Rumina doesn't like any woman near me, and she's already poisoned Maeve. I won't lie to you. What I'm asking is dangerous, and there's no fun to offset the risk. It'll be miserable and probably boring as hell. But I need you."

"You need me, huh? To just stick around?" Talia looks at him doubtfully. "That's an awfully high price you're willing to pay just for the pleasure of my company. Admittedly, I'm great company. But still."

"That's it." Sinbad glances around at the scattered buildings and trees. He knows Rumina isn't literally there while she spies on him, but he can't help his wary eyes. "I can't say any more. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, the kinky witch is a voyeur, I heard. I'm just trying to understand. You want me to...what? Be part of your crew for a while?"

"Yes," he says, watching as she mulls this over. "Exactly that."

"Because your looky-loo doesn't like other ladies around you." She nods slowly as she processes this. "I'm not the motherly type—you already know this. But are you sure we can't throw captain's-cabin privileges into the bargain?"

Sinbad snorts lightly. "You want my cabin? You can have it. I'll happily sleep with the rest of my crew until the spare's fixed, I don't care."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know." He knows exactly what she meant and it's why he has an iron bolt in his pocket, about to be affixed to his door. He's never needed to lock his cabin before, but it will make things infinitely easier while Talia's aboard. Last night won't be her only drunk night, and he's unwilling to be woken up like that again. Maeve thought it was amusing this time. He doesn't know how long her patience will last. Or his own. "But I told you, I can't say any more."

Talia huffs, irritation decorating the slant of her mouth, the tilt of her hazel eyes. "I don't like these cryptic games, you know. Skullduggery is one thing. Having to speak in fucking code every second of every day is different." She rubs her thumb over her tattoo idly as she thinks. "So you want me to hang around because I'm a woman. Because your peeping tom—er, thomasina—doesn't like other ladies around you. Are you trying to piss her off?"

Is he? Sinbad considers this. He wants to confuse her. Keep her guessing—take some of the pressure off Maeve. Making Rumina angry isn't his first consideration. "I don't think so? But if I do, I'm not sorry."

The pirate chuckles. "Well, whether you mean to or not, collecting women is going to make that bitch angry. I hope you know what you're doing."

He doesn't. Not the way she means. But what else can he do? Maeve must be protected, and misdirection seems the best way to go about it since she will not leave the Nomad.

"Okay. Okay. Before we shake on it, let me make sure I understand. You want me to hang around even though it's dangerous. _Because_ it's dangerous, really. To be like your pretty hothead, bait for the evil witch just by being around you. Even though neither of us is—" Her mouth snaps shut.

Sinbad freezes.

Talia blinks. She looks at Maeve and Rongar, walking quietly ahead. Her head slowly turns and she stares at Sinbad. A broad, knowing smile curls her mouth, exposing very white, slightly crooked teeth. "You know what, Sinbad? I take back all that cryptic-nonsense shit. You're actually pretty good at saying a lot without saying anything."

Panic fires through his veins as if Firouz lit an exploding stick inside his belly. Not Talia. Rongar is one thing. Rongar will never breathe a word to anyone, even under torture. Rongar is loyal to the grave. Whatever knowledge Talia has is for sale to the highest bidder.

"Don't," he says, his voice dropping low.

"Take it easy. It was just an observation. A compliment even, maybe." She laughs and pounds his shoulder like a brother.

Sinbad doesn't laugh with her. "Don't," he repeats. "I threatened to feed you to a giant spider before. I still consider that an option."

"Calm down, big boy. You know, your hothead is really uptight and she seems to be rubbing off on you. You both need to learn how to relax a little."

They do not. They can relax just fine when the situation calls for it. Right now, it doesn't. "I'm not laughing, Talia."

"I can see that. I can see a lot, in fact. Much more clearly than I did a minute ago." She chuckles. "You know, though, what I've been thinking?"

"No, and I'm afraid to ask." He'd very much like her to stop talking. Rongar doesn't accidentally let things slip. Talia does. He starts walking again as Doubar and Firouz catch up with them, anxious to keep Maeve and Rongar in sight. Looking for Talia was a terrible idea, he decides. A painfully terrible idea. He may have sealed their fate by trusting too much in a pirate, despite not really trusting her at all. He knew she was smart, but he didn't know how quickly she would figure it out. Doubar hasn't. Firouz hasn't.

"Just hear me out. Your witch. The voyeur, not your hothead."

"Rumina."

"Bless you. Listen. I've never known witches to be entirely moral creatures."

Maeve and Rongar are getting too far ahead for his liking. He frowns and speeds up his steps. "She sold my soul to the devil! How much more immoral can you get?"

"Pay attention, Sinbad. I'm just saying. It sounds like she's pretty pissed at you, yeah, but she's still watching you and getting up to who-knows-what while she does. I think it sounds like she could potentially be...reasoned with."

Once more he stops walking. "You'd better not be suggesting what I think you're suggesting."

Talia smiles sweetly. "Is she pretty?"

"Don't you dare. Don't say it."

"It sounds like she likes you. I think it sounds like she might be willing to double-cross the demon. You know, if you made the option sweet enough." She pokes his chest. "It never hurts to have a backup option. Hedge your bets, remember?"

Now he really feels sick. He wants a hard scrub with salt and pumice, just as they're going to give the scorched Nomad this afternoon. Rumina suggested the same thing—it was her original intent. She'll let Scratch claim his soul if she has to, but she'd prefer Sinbad chose her instead. She gave him the option, and she's waiting for him to accept...which he never will. "I'd rather be eaten alive by killer ants."

"Not up for the challenge, huh? You prefer a...fierier prize these days?" Talia's eyes cut swiftly to Maeve, then back to Sinbad. It's so quick Doubar might have missed it, but Sinbad sees.

"If I have to find another giant spider to feed you to, I will." His voice drops dangerously low. No more words. He can't take back the fact that she knows, but he can try to keep her big mouth shut.

She snorts. "Calm down, you big sea slug. You're no fun these days, you know? Like I said, she's rubbing off on you. Your choice is your choice. It wouldn't be mine, but it's not my call and I don't have to deal with the aftermath. Don't worry. I get it now. I can hang around, especially since I don't exactly have alternate means of transportation at the moment. I still get my ship back, right?"

Sinbad feels the tiniest fraction of his tension begin to lift. "If you can keep your mouth shut. About everything."

"Sure, sure." She waves this away. "Though you really should clue your big brother in, you know. He was blubbering like a baby into his cup last night. His heart's breaking. And he's _pissed_."

He knows. He _knows_. "I wish I could. He doesn't have your skill with the unspoken."

"Well, to be fair, he's not a woman. The signs were right there; I just needed a hint. He's wallowing. Running scared. I don't know if he could see and understand even a fully-ripe belly staring him in the face right now."

Time. They just need to survive a little more time. Then Doubar will have his answers. When he holds his niece or nephew in his arms for the first time, all of this pain will have been worth it. Sinbad has to have faith that it will work out. Maeve is strong, and everyone is doing everything they can to protect her. Even, it seems, Talia.

"Help him, will you?" Sinbad requests as they reach the docks. "If you can stand to. Don't drop hints, that's too dangerous. Just...make him laugh. Ease his mind. If that's even possible."

She grabs a line and swings aboard, then graces him with a cocky salute. "Aye aye, captain! And don't worry. I won't show up in your bunk again until you ask me to. Probably. We'll see. That new ale in your stores is really good."

That "new ale" is Antoine's cider. Despite resigning himself to the chaos Talia will bring, Sinbad finds one side of his mouth attempting to curl into a smile. The Black Rose is annoying as hell and can't be trusted, but he can't help it. He likes her. Sure, her moral compass is a little cracked. Off-kilter. But she's not evil. There's no malice in her.

"Just remember you owe me my ship back," she calls as she steps down from the railing, heading below.

How could he forget? If she can play decoy for Maeve without one of them killing the other, and ease Doubar's tension on top of it, she'll have beyond earned her price.

* * *

They're up to their elbows in a slurry of soot, pumice, rock salt, and seawater, scrubbing and chipping away the blackened parts of the interior of the Nomad, when determined footsteps sound above. Sinbad immediately lunges for the rack where his saber hangs, Rongar and Doubar an instant behind.

"SOMEONE'S UP TOP," Firouz says, slipping on the slick floor. "I CAN'T HEAR, BUT I CAN FEEL IT. FASCINATING! YOU KNOW, I'VE LONG HAD A THEORY THAT SOUND IS NOTHING BUT VIBRATION? PYTHAGORAS STATES THAT IF YOU OBSERVE A VIBRATING STRING CLOSELY—"

No one is listening. Sinbad reaches for the door, but it slams open before his hand can touch the latch.

It's Keely. Sinbad doesn't know who he expected, but from the heavy footsteps he didn't anticipate someone so small, or barefoot. For such a tiny woman, she makes a lot of noise. She's also currently feuding with her sister, so he's doubly curious to see her. He returns his saber to the rack and looks at her cautiously. She's not happy at all. Her eyes dart swiftly around the dark galley as she pauses just inside, arms clamped tightly to her sides and hands curled in tight fists. The brilliant green of her forelock glows even in the dim light below deck.

"You know, you're supposed to ask a captain's permission before coming aboard," Talia says, watching this new development with interest.

Keely's glance is scathing. "I don't need anyone's permission." She doesn't ask who Talia is, or what they're doing covered in wet black sludge. She ignores Maeve entirely, those unnatural green eyes settling firmly on Sinbad. "Is he here?"

"Is who here?"

Her lips press together tightly. "Declan. Wren's secondborn. He's been missing all day, and his brothers haven't seen him. Niall's afraid he got into the opals and went somewhere, though hell if I know how. We're checking everywhere we can."

Maeve pushes forward, and Sinbad can see the instant concern in her. That kid's her special favorite, though as an honorary aunt she probably shouldn't have one. "Are you sure he disappeared?" she asks, addressing her sister for the first time since Keely took her to Breakwater without her permission. "Did you check everywhere? On top of the bookcases? Behind the brewshed? You know he climbs—"

"I know that kid far better than you do," Keely snaps, rounding on her sister, "so don't go acting all superior! You're a good half a year out of date on his hiding places, which you'd know if you weren't so gods-fucking-damned neurotic about ever coming home!"

Maeve turns instantly red, which Sinbad has never seen before. Not warm. Not pink. She's the color of a radish, and he's not sure if he should worry more for her health or the safety of his ship. "Don't you dare lecture me about being neurotic! I'm trying to keep everyone safe! You shouldn't even be here—or do you just not remember the agreement we made about any of you coming south? Ant's been showing up regularly, and now you? It's like you don't even recognize the danger!"

"I don't want to be here!" Keely screeches, her pitch rising with her volume. Maeve can bellow when she chooses to, her voice dropping fairly deep for a woman's, loud and resonant. Keely's is the opposite. She almost sounds like a child as her intensity rises. "Declan is missing—what part of that do you not understand?"

Talia is watching all of this as if it's the best play she's seen in a while, far better than any Greek classic. Maeve opens her mouth to shout back at her sister, but Sinbad cuts her off. Letting them keen at each other like banshees won't solve anything, and while he knows better than to get in the middle of this, there's a small child missing. They can scream at each other later, after they find the kid.

"How could such a little kid manage that magic?" he says, hoping to pull at least one of them back on subject. "The one time I tried it made me sick, and I almost didn't make it." He still remembers that terrifying feeling of being stuck between two places, two realities. He doesn't know how long he lingered in-between, but he suspects if something goes very wrong it's possible for a person to remain there permanently.

"You used that weird bracelet, not your own power boosted by our opals," Keely snaps, but at least she's speaking to him instead of yelling at her sister. Her body moves, weight shifting from one leg to the other with impatience. "I felt you barreling towards us like a falling star about to crash and had to open our protective shields so you wouldn't be bounced away or burnt to cinders. You had no idea what you were doing, and it served you right that it made you sick. Dex knows better." She considers. "Maybe not much better, but he's six years old. Seven, I forgot. He just had a birthday." She scowls at the rainbow band on Sinbad's arm. "Do you even know how to use that thing properly?"

She's in a terrible mood, even for her. Sinbad swallows his own irritation. She's worried about her nephew, so he can give her a little grace. "I don't even know what it is or where it came from, let alone how to use it. It didn't come with a manual."

Keely exhales swiftly through her nose. "Most magical artifacts don't." She's calming from her swift explosion at her sister, but Sinbad doesn't trust that she won't light again if Maeve opens her mouth. Or vice versa. "Look, is he here? Have you seen him? He wants to sail, and for some reason he adores Maeve. Niall's afraid this is the first place he'd try for, despite the distance."

That's Sinbad's fear, too, especially after feeling the terrifying, wrenching pull of the in-between. A child just turned seven might still fear things that go bump in the night, but he won't fear the things he ought—like using magic he can't control to take him halfway across the world. "I haven't seen him," he's forced to say, and he turns to Maeve. She's the one with the uncanny sixth sense about her nieces and nephews. He's seen it: she knows what they're up to without even looking. He used to think that was purely a mother thing, some special intuition women gain after giving birth, but Maeve already has it so that theory's shot.

She shakes her head, her color slowly calming. That intuition seems to be telling her the same thing his regular senses are telling him. Neither have noticed anything unusual today, nothing that would alert them to a child hiding on board.

"You'd know if he were here?" he presses, though he believes her completely.

"I'd know." She sounds perfectly sure. "But we can search, if it will make you feel better." She addresses him only, not her sister, whom she's apparently ignoring again.

He nods. It's best they look for the boy, just in case. He's not here, but it will calm Keely's tension and satisfy Sinbad's own need as a captain to make doubly sure.

"What, exactly, are we supposed to be looking for?" Talia asks, willingly enough. "A little northern rugrat?"

Doubar eyes Keely warily. "So we may have a stowaway, you say? Another one?"

"Aye," Sinbad says before Keely can reply. Doubar's touchy right now and he and Keely did not get along during their last encounter. It's best to keep them apart, if possible. "A wily little guy." In all honesty he likes Declan and his older brother. He's much more comfortable around them than he is the tiny ones.

"What do you mean, another stowaway?" Keely juts her chin toward Talia. "Did that one sneak aboard, too? I don't know her."

"She did, but she's a friend," Sinbad says, and hopes Keely leaves it at that. This isn't the time for introductions. They need to reassure themselves that the kid's not here, then let Keely get on with her search in the next most likely place. "Let's get some more lanterns lit. We'll go over the ship inch by inch. If Declan's here, we'll find him."

"RONGAR, WHAT'S GOING ON? IT'S THE GREEN WOMAN WHO'S MAYBE PREGNANT AND DOUBAR DOESN'T LIKE, I KNOW, BUT I CAN'T UNDERSTAND—MAYBE IT'S THE ACCENT. APPARENTLY ACCENTS CARRY OVER INTO LIP-READING, WHICH IS FASCINATING. I'LL NEED TO MAKE A NOTE IN MY RECORDS. POSSIBLY EXPAND IT INTO A WHOLE ESSAY. DID YOU KNOW—"

Talia stares at Keely with much more interest as Rongar attempts to hush Firouz.

"I only don't like that mouth they share," Doubar mutters as he replaces his sword on the rack. He glowers at both sisters. Maeve glares back. Keely ignores him.

"YOU KNOW," Firouz bellows, setting his sword aside and ignoring Rongar's desperately shaking head, "SINBAD NEVER DID TELL US WHETHER YOU WERE, IN FACT, GRAVID OR NOT."

Rongar closes his eyes and drops his head into his palm.

"That's because Sinbad is apparently capable of intelligence from time to time. I was beginning to think no one on this ship was." Keely squints at Firouz as he looks to Rongar for a translation. Rongar—probably wisely—refuses. "What's wrong with your skeptic?" She folds her arms over her chest and drops her weight into one hip.

"He blew up the ship and went deaf. We hope it's only temporary," Sinbad says. Firouz is endlessly adaptable and could no doubt withstand the permanent change, but for all their sakes Sinbad hopes he doesn't have to. The scientist is one of his best friends, but his deaf bellows are getting on his nerves.

Keely crosses briskly to Firouz's side. She grasps one of his ears firmly and angles him into the glow of a hanging lantern, pulling hard until he's exactly where she wants him.

"OW! AH, SORRY, MA'AM, BUT THAT'S KIND OF SORE. I LOST MY HEARING, YOU SEE, AND—"

She ignores him. "You burst your eardrum," she says after a short examination of his ear. She releases him and wipes her hand on the shoulder of his shirt. "That's why your ear is leaking. The other side is probably the same."

"I BELIEVE I RUPTURED MY TYMPANIC MEMBRANE ON BOTH SIDES. THE RESULTANT OTORRHEA IS HARMLESS. JUST A RELEASE OF INNER EAR FLUID."

She looks at him disgustedly. "I know it's harmless. I'm not stupid. I saved your skin last time we met, remember? Your hearing should return as the eardrum heals, but it may take time."

"ANYWAY, THE HEARING LOSS SHOULD ONLY BE TEMPORARY SO LONG AS THERE'S NO SCARRING. IT SIMPLY REQUIRES A SMALL EXERCISE IN PATIENCE."

Keely's own patience with Firouz is gone. She rolls her eyes and desists, reaching up to unhook the lantern from its ring. "Are we doing this or not? I need to let Dex's parents know whether we can mark this place off the list."

"You couldn't hurry up his healing at all, could you?" Sinbad asks, since she's here. He wants his scientist back, hale and whole. Also for the yelling to stop. Doubar and Maeve do enough of that without Firouz adding to the cacophony.

"Best not to unless there's a particular reason to rush. It's always better to let the body heal itself, with the aid of medicinal herbs, good food, and rest, than to use force—things like magic or surgery. Even your skeptic would agree if he could hear me."

Sinbad accepts this. It didn't hurt to ask, but what she says makes sense. She's probably right that Firouz would agree, too, if he'd heard her.

Maeve brings a lantern and two fat candles from her cabin and lights them with a touch. She pushes a candle into Firouz's hands and locks her eyes with his, making sure he's watching her mouth as she speaks. "A little boy is missing. We don't think he's here, but we need to check, please? He means a lot to me."

"OF COURSE, MY DEAR. A SHIP IS NO PLACE FOR AN UNWARY CHILD."

"Unwary" is exactly how Sinbad would describe the little monster. He's plucky and fearless, and too young to be on a ship without careful supervision. Dim-Dim wouldn't let Sinbad go to sea until he was twelve; Dex is barely seven. Babysitting the younger boys is one thing: someone will always be watching them. Declan could get seriously hurt sneaking around the Nomad on his own.

"I don't like all this flitting around people are doing lately," Doubar grumbles as he and Sinbad start for the hold, Talia just behind them. "Only Rumina ever did it before. Now people are popping in and out without so much as a by-your-leave. No manners at all. I don't like it."

"I'm not the deaf one, you know," Keely calls from the vicinity of Maeve's cabin. "I can hear you perfectly well."

"Good!" Doubar barks back. "You may be carrying my nephew or you may not, but you don't live here. What gives you the right to tromp around as if you own the place?"

He's agreeing with Maeve at the moment by not wanting Keely here, but Sinbad chooses not to point this out. Absolutely no one will thank him for it.

"I don't like your dumb boat and I wouldn't live here if you paid me to," Keely snaps. "It's dark and hot and smelly, and it's not natural to have water under my feet instead of solid earth. I just want the kid. Once I know he's not here, I'm gone."

They begin lifting cartons and sacks of supplies, checking with lanterns and candles to ensure no little boy has curled up underneath anything. Sinbad can hear Keely continuing to mutter loudly about his "dumb boat" and the people on it, but he takes no offense. This is how she wears her worry. It's different than most people's, but still recognizable.

"So you do have a backup after all." Talia pats Sinbad on the back. "Good job. Smart. Though this one may be worse than the other."

Sinbad glares. Keely's child is not his and he hates letting this lie stand. He has no desire for Maeve's sister and a great deal of respect for Antoine, which makes this awkward all around. She and Maeve only happen to be with child at the same time because of a quirk of fate, the choice to use the _teas_ to increase the likelihood of conception. When Keely's son is born as winged and nut-brown as his sisters, it will be very clear who fathered him. But that's no help to Sinbad now.

"They're sisters," Doubar grunts as he lifts an entire stack of crates as if they weighed nothing. "That's what I meant about the mouths."

Talia barks a short, sharp laugh. "They're not sisters. No way. If that's the line their mother was selling, you should take a careful look at the local goatherd. Or miller."

"Dermott raised them both," Sinbad says, sharper than he means to. He's tired of all the fighting and he just wants it to stop. Keely and Maeve can give each other the silent treatment all they like, ignore each other like petulant children, as long as no one's shouting. "You want to tell them that doesn't make them sisters? I sure don't."

Talia stares at him. "_Dermott_ raised them? The bird?"

Shit. Sinbad swears silently. He's carrying the weight of too many secrets, too many lies, and he's slipping. He can't remember from moment to moment which fabrication he's told to which crewmember, and who shouldn't know what. It's getting ridiculous. He needs a chart of some sort, like the charts Firouz uses to map their course, showing the wind and the currents, the rocks and the reefs. Each moment he opens his mouth he feels as unsteady as a sailor threading between Scylla and Charybdis.

But Doubar, at least, seems to take this new revelation in stride. "If you told me they were raised by wolves I wouldn't be surprised. Dermott's at least better than that."

"Where _is_ the pretty boy?" Talia asks, pausing her search and straightening. "I haven't seen him since I've been aboard."

That's one question Sinbad knows better than to even try to answer. He doesn't have to search his memory, doesn't have to hope he's telling the right tale to the right person. He has no idea where Dermott is, and the reason the hawk left is none of Talia's business. It's nobody's business except Maeve's, and tangentially Sinbad's. "Do not ask," he says, dropping his voice deliberately into his captain's register. "Remember the spider? Remember my promise? Drop it."

Dermott's disappearance is one thing his crew has, mercifully, chosen not to question. Not even Doubar. He knows they must have noted the missing hawk—Dermott's as much a member of this crew as Maeve, as any of them. But out of compassion for their sorceress, they have not probed this wound. He will not let Talia be the first.

"Okay, okay. The bird's off-limits. So what about the new girl?"

"She's Maeve's sister. Doubar already told you. She works at a library in Eire. That's all I have to say." He pauses. "Except...this might not be the best time to bring it up, but I sort of agreed to a small babysitting job for one of the other scribes." He meant to tell Doubar before. He did. It just sort of slipped his mind.

Doubar whirls faster than Sinbad has seen in a while. "You what?"

"Easy. What's the big deal?" Sinbad lifts the half-full crate of apricots Talia subsisted on when she was accidentally locked in the hold.

"Run that by me again, little brother. Slower this time."

"They're the ones supplying us right now. I couldn't exactly say no." Nor did he want to. He owes them.

Talia howls as if this is the funniest thing she's heard all day. "You mean someone's actually willing to put you in charge of a kid? Don't tell me—is it the little squab we're looking for?"

"Not him. Just his younger brothers." At least, Sinbad's pretty sure.

"Plural?" Talia's laughs slowly die down. Apparently she doesn't think this is quite so funny anymore. "I know you're going to try this protocol thingy and you need a girl with a belly to do that, but what in the world makes you think you have any business taking care of actual kids?"

Okay, that stings. A prickle of defensiveness runs down his spine. "We deal with kids all the time." How hard could it be to mind a few of them?

"How many are we talking?" Doubar sounds caught between indignation and resignation, as if he can't quite make up his mind to either be furious or give up. "How old? When?"

"Three? I think?" Niall wasn't entirely clear on that point. "Young. The little one doesn't have any teeth, barely any hair. His brothers are stair-stepped above him."

"A baby?" Doubar drops the crates in his hands; the crash shakes the ship. "You agreed to watch a baby that young? How do you expect to feed him, huh? You know girls can't give suck until they've had a child of their own, right? Maeve and Talia are useless. What do you expect to do? Does the kid come with his own goat and fodder?"

"Me and my breasts are not useless," Talia grumbles. "We're just not a meal for a screaming baby. We're much more fun than that."

Sinbad has no idea how to answer his brother; he never thought about it. "I don't know," he says honestly. "His father asked, I agreed, and Maeve backed me up. They must know what they're doing."

Doubar curses. "That girl never knows what she's doing," he snaps, which isn't true and they all know it. "There you go getting yourself into trouble again, and I'll have to bail you out. You don't know anything about babies, and I'll bet my last cent she doesn't, either. She's not the type."

"Neither am I," Talia says, "so do not put me on baby rotation. I'd rather scrape barnacles."

Doubar growls with frustration. "Some women you picked, little brother. They can't cook, they can't mind a baby."

"Nah, but I'm fabulous in bed. And with a sword. No pun intended." Talia balls her fist and punches Doubar's arm. "Knock it off, you old grouch. You like kids, and you like me. You're just complaining for the sake of complaining now."

"I am not," he grumbles. "I like tykes well enough. And Sinbad does need some practice. But we don't need more northerners bumbling around this ship, and he should have asked me first. I'm going to have to play babysitter for however long the shrimps are with us, picking up the slack for what the rest of you won't do."

It's true that Sinbad often asks for a consensus from his crew before embarking on a quest, but it's not required of a captain and in this case he didn't think he needed to. They're not sailing off the edge of the map or marching toward certain death this time, just taking on a few little boys for a few days. Maeve and Doubar know kids, no matter how much the first mate doubts her. Firouz and Rongar are endlessly adaptable. He himself is clueless and now he knows Talia is as well, but even he can survive a few days. Right?

"I'm sorry I didn't ask. I should have. But they've done a lot for us recently—more than you know. I need a chance to repay them, and this is what they asked. It'll be a hassle, but how much trouble could such small kids get into?"

Doubar laughs sarcastically and gestures around them. "We're searching for their big brother who's gone off adventuring on his own, aren't we?"

Well, when he puts it that way.

* * *

They search every inch of the ship and come up empty-handed, as Maeve said and Sinbad suspected they would. They even opened the bags and the crates in the hold to make sure the skinny little boy hadn't folded himself up somewhere in their supplies. Keely left with a promise that someone would update them as soon as Declan was found.

Maeve is distraught, and not hiding it well. She throws herself into her work, scrubbing at the charred streaks of soot in the galley as if they've personally wronged her. Sinbad wishes he could hold her, could soothe her somehow, but he knows better than to try. When she gets like this she doesn't want to be calmed. She wants to act.

"You can go," he says, knowing she won't but needing to give her the option. "You can go help them look. For as long as it takes."

She shakes her head and refuses to look at him. "If they wanted my help, Keely would have said so."

She wouldn't, actually—not right now. Not with how angry they both still are. Niall and Wren might welcome another pair of eyes, but if they want Maeve they'll have to come ask themselves. Keely won't do it. Sinbad knows that much.

"Is there some sort of spell they could put on him?" he muses as they work. Everyone's knuckles will be bleeding tonight if they're not already, smarting from the slurry of pumice and salt, but this is the only way he knows to get down to healthy wood so they don't build back up on an unreliable foundation. "That kid's a crate of trouble. There must be a spell to easily find him when he wanders off. Rumina always seems to know where we are, after all."

"Probably." Maeve rises swiftly from her knees, grunting softly with effort as she reaches as high as she can, stretching tall to touch the ceiling. Fat black drops of sooty slurry splash her cheek, her hair. "It sounds reasonable, anyway," she says as she scrubs. "Whoa." She stumbles and her body jerks. Her knees buckle and she drops like a stone.

Firouz and Rongar are both at her side in an instant, which Sinbad would find touching except that they're in his way. He scowls and shoves at them, but the physician and the Moor block him from her side. Fury lights in his belly and he's almost ready to physically knock one or both of them out of the way when he hears her voice.

"I'm okay." He sees a flash of red hair as she shakes her head, hears the exasperation in her voice. "I'm fine. Don't hover. I just shouldn't have stretched so far."

"LOCKING THE KNEES WHILE STANDING ERECT OR DURING PHYSICAL EXERTION CAN REDUCE BLOODFLOW AND INDUCE FAINTING SPELLS," Firouz says as he crouches next to her.

"Good to know." She pushes his hand gently away when he attempts to feel the pulse in her wrist. "I'm fine. Go back to work. I won't stretch so far again, I promise."

"YOU KNOW, YOU'RE ALMOST AS EASY TO UNDERSTAND AS RONGAR?" Firouz rises. "DRINK SOME WATER AND SIT A MOMENT. YOUR SISTER WAS MUCH MORE DIFFICULT."

"She always is," Maeve mutters, but she takes Rongar's offered hand as she returns to her feet, something she does not often welcome, and obediently crosses to the barrel of fresh water. "Anyway, I think if Niall knew a spell he'd have slapped it on Dex by now. This isn't the first time he's disappeared. It's just the first time there's been worry about the opals." She frowns as she drinks. She's trying not to let her worry show, and doing a terrible job of it.

Doubar chuckles despite his ongoing sour mood. "Reminds me of you," he says, nodding at Sinbad. "Always running off on some pint-sized adventure or other. It's a wonder Dim-Dim didn't chain you to the wall some days."

Is this what it will be like? When his own child is this age? Sinbad isn't sure he's ready for what feels like a constant current of apprehension, of fear, the possibility that absolutely anything could happen to such a small, fearless child. He's only having the one no matter what Antoine and Niall say about subsequent children being easier, so on the plus side he'll only have one reckless little soul to worry about. On the other hand, this child may be far worse than even Declan if he inherits his father's controlling nature and his mother's intractable stubbornness.

Sinbad watches Maeve drink her water. She seems fine—just as dirty as the rest of them, but her stance is firm and she's neither trembling nor swaying. Her color, from what he can see in the dim light below deck, is normal. Her eyes meet his but she looks away again swiftly. "I wonder if science might have a better answer to this problem than magic?" he says, still thinking about the missing boy, about his own unborn child. Getting lost on the Nomad would be even harder than getting lost on Breakwater's tiny islet, but Maeve has an opal. He doesn't know how much magical ability it takes to use them, and he doesn't want to ever be in the position Niall is in now. The man must be frantic.

Firouz isn't watching him speak and therefore doesn't respond, but Doubar laughs and shakes his head. "You mean some sort of device to...to track someone, as a hunter tracks a deer? Keep dreaming, little brother. That's far beyond what even our genius could invent."

Sinbad shrugs. "You never know."

He keeps a close watch on Maeve for the rest of the afternoon and evening, but she remains fine. Sinbad tries to tell himself not to worry. She has Firouz to consult if she's not feeling well, and Keely if things really get bad. She won't risk the health of her baby for the sake of her feud. He thinks. He hopes.

As the hours pass with no word from Breakwater, though, her tension grows more difficult to hide. She refuses to eat the evening meal, which isn't unusual lately, brewing a mug of the minty herbal concoction Wren gave her but barely sipping at it as she paces the deck, unable to remain still. Sinbad wishes he could do something, but he can't touch her and she doesn't want to be soothed anyway. She already knows she's free to go if she wants to, and really, that's the extent of his power in this situation. He has no magic or science to summon the boy and no ability to calm her without Declan's safe return.

"She's really worried." Talia idly tosses two dice on the top of a crate as they lounge on deck. "Didn't know she had it in her. Damn! Snake eyes. Your turn." She passes them to Doubar.

"He's her nephew." Sinbad supposes it's safe to say at least that much. They're going to be watching Dex's little brothers, after all. He remembers Maeve's words to him only just this morning—those boys are his nephews now, too. He takes that charge very seriously. Maeve's family is his now, just as his family is hers. He's worried, too, but he's better at concealing it.

"The little green girl's got more kids?" Talia looks up in surprise. "That's tricky, Sinbad. Not something you want to mess around with. Of course, I'd say the same about two sisters, but it seems you already went there."

Doubar snorts. Sinbad grits his teeth. "They're not Keely's boys."

"How many sisters does she have? And why didn't she say anything? I thought it was just her and the bird." Doubar tosses his dice. "Seven. Pay up."

Talia hands over a coin. The easy way she parts with her money makes Sinbad suspect it's counterfeit. Doubar says nothing, so neither does he.

"You haven't exactly been her best friend lately. I don't know why you think she'd want to tell you anything." Sinbad watches as she reaches the bow of the ship, turns, and retraces her path back to the tiller. Seeing her without her leather gauntlet, without Dermott perched on her wrist or the railing, feels so unnatural. She needs her brother back. And their wayward nephew.

"Seems like she's told you plenty."

"Some," Sinbad allows. "Not all." He doubts he'll ever know everything about his sorceress. She's a complicated girl with a complicated story. She's like the tales of the minotaur's labyrinth, a maze so impenetrable that no one can solve it. But she loves him. She loves him, and that love is his magic ball of string. With it, he'll always be able to find his way back home. Back to her.

The evening has long faded into full night, the lanterns lit and mugs of cider passed around, when Niall and Antoine appear. As they step into the golden glow of the lanterns, Sinbad can see that they're both filthy. They also have several crates and the three youngest boys with them.

"Oof," Talia mutters. "I'd give that man sons, too. Are all northern men that pretty?"

Niall is Roman, not Celt, or maybe some mixture of the two, but Sinbad holds his tongue.

"The other one clearly isn't Daddy, but he's not so bad, either."

"Behave," Sinbad says, rising from his seat. "They're both very spoken for."

Talia sighs. "Of course they are."

Maeve rushes her brothers, moving swiftly down the aft steps and across the deck. "Did you find him?"

"Aye," Niall confirms, his youngest son asleep in his arms. His four-year-old detaches himself from his father's leg with a bleating little cry and launches himself at her. She catches him deftly and swings him to her hip, her eyes alight with questions as he wraps his arms around her neck and buries his head in her shoulder. Unlike his brothers, his hair curls in loose, dark little ringlets. "Well?" Maeve demands as she holds the little boy.

Antoine winces. "You know a while ago when Dex kept insisting he was chasing gremlins? We kept finding him on top of the library bookshelves and digging up the meadow? Uprooted half the herb garden trying to tunnel under it?"

She barks a short, sharp laugh. "He was right, wasn't he? You've got an infestation."

Niall looks disgusted. "We found him behind the root bins in the cellar, digging into the floor trying to follow one of their tunnels. He'd actually got pretty far considering he only had a trowel and a little pick."

"Gremlins?" Sinbad frowns as he steps up beside Maeve. The little boy buried in her hair doesn't budge. Antoine has the two-year-old by the hand, Niall's holding the baby, and Sinbad suspects he knows where this is going.

"Have you ever seen a mandrake root? That's what a gremlin looks like, except they're not plants. They breed like rabbits, tunnel like moles, infest buildings like rats, and are smarter than all three combined so they're hell to get rid of." Antoine scowls. "The _teas_ is in a few days, so we're going to have to work fast. And use serious magic. Which means no distractions."

Sinbad has never heard of gremlins before, but the rest of the story is exactly what he was afraid of. The three little boys are his responsibility now.

"You can't separate Mia and Rory," Maeve protests, rocking the little boy in her arms gently.

"No choice," Niall says. "She screamed herself hoarse and he's a mess, but she can't come south and no one in the village will take both of them anymore. He's sweet as honey without her but together they raise hell."

Maeve scowls, but there's nothing she can do about it. She screamed at Keely for coming south, and Keely's human. Antoine can cover his wings and his ears for short periods of time, but hiding his daughters' true nature for days would be impossible. Sinbad wishes he could fix this, but he can't. He can't accept responsibility for those girls, so, like it or not, the child buried in Maeve's hair is going to have to live without his reflection for a while.

"I'm sorry to spring this on you," Ant says, "but we need to get this infestation taken care of before the _teas_. We brought some things to soften the blow." He pats the stack of crates. "No ginger yet, but plenty of limes and honey. I found a source in Iberia so you can have all you want."

"Milk for Conall," Niall adds, "and I already cast the spell that will keep it sweet. Some fresh bread—unfortunately I don't think there's a spell to keep that from going stale. A stack of linen for Con. Duncan's pretty much done having accidents, but in a new place you never know." He rubs his chin. "What else? You can give Con gruel as long as it's cooked soft enough, or bread soaked in milk. Fruit if you chew it for him first. He's not fond of real food, but he has to learn at some point." He kisses the baby's head, then lifts him from his shoulder and places him in Sinbad's arms.

Talia laughs.

Sinbad doesn't think it's funny. He's held Niall's baby before, but he swears the kid was smaller then. Now the boy lifts his head and eyes him. Sinbad's pretty sure he's been judged and found lacking. And he'd like Niall to back up and go over some of his last speech again. Accidents? What kind of accidents?

But Maeve's brothers don't seem inclined to offer much more information. Antoine guides the two-year-old's hand into Maeve's. He looks for a moment like he wants to put up a fuss, but he tilts his head up and studies his aunt, wraps his arm around her leg, and desists.

"We'll be fine," she says, touching his hair lightly.

"Will you say goodbye to da, Rory?" Niall leans close, offering a hug, but the boy on Maeve's hip turns his head away and holds her tighter. His father abandons the attempt. "He's mad at me."

"I'd be mad at you, too. He'll get over it."

Niall hesitates. "If you have any trouble you can come get me or Wren, but it has to be before the extra shielding spells go up for the _teas_."

"I know. We'll be fine," she repeats. Sinbad hopes she knows what she's saying, because right now he's not so sure at all. This sounded like a reasonable way to pay her family back for some of their goodwill, but that was before he had a judgmental baby in his arms, one apparently very ready to stare him down.

"Be good for Maeve, boys. Please. I'll come get you right after the _teas_." Niall touches Rory's hair, steps back, and both men disappear.

The baby in Sinbad's arms opens his mouth and wails.

* * *

_A/N: Gonna have some fun with kids and then shit's gonna get real. Just a warning!_


	25. Chapter 25

_A/N: I didn't know when I named the Breakwater kids that Jacqueline Collen's son was named Rory (or maybe I did decades ago but I forgot). I wouldn't have chosen it had I known/remembered, but I'm sticking with it. It's tough finding Gaelic names that are a) not blatantly Christian and b) pronounceable to English-speaking readers. To recap, the boys are Brandon, Declan, Rory, Duncan, and Conall. _

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Sinbad gingerly holds Niall's screaming baby as the child wails. This experiment is only thirty seconds old and he's pretty sure it's already a failure. The baby's screaming, the four-year-old is despondent, and the middle boy looks ready to join his little brother's howls at any moment. He hadn't realized—should have, but didn't—how unsure such small children would be in an unfamiliar place, surrounded with unfamiliar people. They know their aunt and they've seen him before, but the rest of his crew are strangers. This was Antoine's idea, not his, but still he feels bad for the little guys. He should have known better.

"Maeve?" He turns to her in appeal. These are her nephews. She knows them. Surely she knows what to do?

"Sorry, my hands are full." She doesn't sound particularly sorry. In fact, she sounds more amused than Sinbad thinks is quite fair. She cradles Rory's sturdy body gently in her arms, stroking his fine, soft curls with gentle fingers as the younger boy wraps himself further around her leg. Despite the baby wailing directly in his ear, Sinbad manages a flash of envy. At what age is it no longer acceptable for a guy to wind himself around a pretty woman and expect kisses?

"Oh, for the love of…" Doubar stumps forward. "Put that one down. He's too old to be babied."

Maeve scowls at him and keeps hold of her nephew. "He's sensitive. Besides, he spent the day worrying about his big brother, and his father just abandoned him in a strange place he doesn't know. Leave him alone." She brushes the younger boy's cheek with her hand. He gazes up at her with blissful trust and plants a kiss above her knee. Yeah, Sinbad's jealous. The little guy doesn't know how good he has it.

Doubar mutters under his breath and takes the baby from Sinbad's arms. Despite his grumpy words, his hands are gentle. "What did I tell you? I'm going to have to pick up the slack the rest of you drop." He transfers the baby's weight to his chest and arm. "Hey there, little guy. I know. Poor little guy. Your papa had no idea what he was doing, leaving you with our dear captain, did he?" He chucks the baby lightly under the chin. "Buck up, there. What's done is done. We'll muddle through."

The baby plants his fat little hand in Doubar's face and pushes him away.

Sinbad manages to hold in his laughter, but only just. "Seems he's no happier about this than you are."

"Here." Doubar pushes the baby firmly into Firouz's arms. "You can't hear, anyway. Let him scream in your ear if he won't be quiet."

"OH!" Firouz clutches at him, blinking swiftly and turning from side to side, looking for an open pair of arms, but Rongar and Talia back firmly away. "YOU KNOW, I FIND HUMAN DEVELOPMENT FASCINATING BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN I HAVE THE NECESSARY PRACTICAL SKILLS TO NURTURE AN INFANT. WHY EXACTLY DO I NOW HAVE ONE?"

Maeve swears in her native tongue. Is she supposed to do that around such small children? Sinbad's unsure. Dim-Dim hardly swore at all so he doesn't have much to go on, but he's fairly sure parents don't like hearing words like that drop from tiny mouths. He watches as she limps over to Firouz, her motion hindered by the two-year-old wrapped around her leg. She pushes his shoulder firmly.

"Sit," she says, angling her face so the inventor can see her mouth move. He does, sinking back onto a wooden crate.

"NOW IF YOU OR RONGAR WOULD KINDLY EXPLAIN THE CHILDREN, I'D BE VERY GRATEFUL. I SAW THEY APPEARED WITH SOME CRATES. ARE THEY CARGO?"

"Might as well be. Sinbad agreed to watch them, so take it up with him, not me. Here. He doesn't like being tilted backward like that. Hold him more upright, like this. There. He can hold his head up on his own, you don't need to do it for him. Just don't make it harder than it has to be."

"MY, HE'S NOT HAPPY."

"Not happy" is an understatement. He's squealing like a newly-weaned goat searching for its mother and quickly turning red. Fat tears leak from his big eyes, he's snotty and drooling, and even without that high, piercing scream it's not appealing at all. Once again Sinbad has to wonder why adults willingly subject themselves to these things. The begetting is fun, but now faced with three very real, very unhappy consequences he's not sure it's worth it.

Maeve swears again. Sinbad really would like to know whether that's going to be a problem, because she has one of the filthiest mouths he's ever heard. He knew that even before he knew exactly what those words meant. Normally he finds it sexy as hell, but not if it results in angry parents. She unwinds Rory's chubby little arms from around her neck and brushes his silky curls back, tipping his head up gently to look at her. "Listen, little man. I need your help for a minute. Okay?"

Rory shakes his head firmly. Whatever else he may be, the kid's not stupid. He knows she wants to put him down and he's not interested. He reaches for her again, attempting to return to his hiding spot in her hair. She draws him back out, tender but firm. "I know. I know you're scared. You don't know where you are and you want Mia."

"Mia," he agrees, gathering fistfuls of white linen, anchoring himself to her against any attempt she might make to dislodge him.

"What's a Mia?" Doubar whispers, frowning as he watches.

Sinbad shakes his head and refuses to answer. He's not touching that one.

"I know. But Mia has to stay up north right now, and you get to have adventures with me and Captain Sinbad for a few days. See? Remember him?" Maeve lifts her eyes to him and points.

Rory looks at him dully. His expression isn't encouraging. He's seen Sinbad a few times, but the prospect of spending time with him is clearly no match for the loss of Mia.

"You know, Declan is going to be very jealous that you get to spend the _teas_ with us."

For the first time, Sinbad sees a hint of interest in the boy's face. He turns to his aunt, weighing her words. He likes the idea of his older brother being jealous of him. Sinbad isn't surprised. With so many boys so close in age the rivalries must get intense sometimes, even with a large extended family to ease the strain. He doesn't remember often fighting with Doubar when they were young, but the age difference was much greater. He's also always believed he and Doubar share a special bond, whether because of their lost parents or something else. They're more than brothers.

"And Doubar and Talia are good at telling stories," Maeve says, kneeling slowly, easing Rory's bare little feet to the deck.

"That much I can do," Talia agrees, drinking cider as she watches this exchange. "I tell great stories."

Rongar taps her on the shoulder and drops his palm near the ground, indicating the tininess of such young children.

"Yes," Sinbad agrees. "Kid-safe stories?"

"Uh...nobody said I was perfect."

Sinbad feels a headache beginning at the base of his skull, tense and throbbing. This is going to be a long few days. He's convinced he can return Niall's children to him in one piece, but he has no control over what they may say when they go home. Between Maeve's filthy mouth and Talia's filthy stories, he's a little afraid they're going to get quite an education. On the plus side, if Niall's unhappy he'll never ask Sinbad to babysit again.

"I wouldn't worry." Maeve gently peels Rory's arms from her body. "Niall's told them stories from the Abrahamic testament. Hard to get bloodier than that. And Celt legends aren't much better." Once she has Rory standing on the deck under his own power she kisses him sweetly. "There's my big man. I need your help with Con, Rory. I need you to be a big brother for a minute." She lifts the crying baby from Firouz's arms and gives him to his brother. "He doesn't know where he is, and he's scared. But he has his big brother here to protect him, doesn't he?"

At first Sinbad doubts it's going to work. Rory is too young, and thoroughly immersed in his own fear. He can't worry about his brother's. He's used to being the little brother struggling to keep up with the older boys, or paired off with Mia, who is the same age but by far the more dominant personality. He sits down hard on the deck, jarring both himself and the baby, and looks up at Maeve dubiously.

"I know." She strokes his cheek with one hand, the other snagging the two-year-old attempting to climb onto her back and tugging him around to the front. "I know you're scared. But you're used to the _teas_. Con isn't yet. He wants his mama just like you do, but he's too little to understand that she'll be back very soon. You can help him understand, can't you? You're so much bigger than he is."

And, to Sinbad's surprise, Rory nods. He holds his crying brother close and says something too quietly for Sinbad to catch. Maeve smiles. The familiar touch and smell of his older brother seem to do the trick and the baby's wails begin to calm like a dying storm.

"Huh. So that's why people have multiples. So they can fob the little ones off on the elder." She nods approvingly. "I always assumed it was just plain idiocy. I mean, one kid is a drunken mistake plus bad timing. But multiple always seemed like willful mismanagement to me. Now I get it."

"No," Doubar says, glaring at Talia instead of Maeve for once. "You have more than one so your little guy has brothers at his side." He grins at Rory holding the baby. "Good little man. Reminds me of me and Sinbad. Of course I was much older by the time my brother came along." He chuckles. "Cute little shrimps. They can't help that their papa left them with us. How long are they here?"

"About a week, I'm guessing," Sinbad says, glancing at Maeve. The two-year-old is ignoring his brothers and still trying to climb her like a tree. She brushes his soft hair out of his eyes and lifts him as she stands, and immediately his whiny sounds cease. Sinbad is still very jealous of that kid and also a little in awe of her. She's scary smart, deadly with a sword, but also handles small children with a natural calm he doesn't think he'll ever be able to learn.

She holds the little boy gently as he clings to her like a baby monkey, content to stare at the new faces and new surroundings from a safe place attached to his aunt. All three boys are, for the moment, blessedly silent. It feels like magic, but Sinbad doesn't think he saw Maeve cast any spells.

"Don't look at me like that," she snaps, scowling when she meets his eyes.

Was he looking at her any particular way? He doesn't think so. At least, not on purpose.

"I'm pretty sure I didn't grow a second head, so knock it off. Kids are easy."

"They're not." No way. Human bullies with swords are easy. Skeletons risen from the dead are easy. Sometimes even harpies. Not children. He knows what to do when something attacks him. He doesn't know what to do when a tiny lump of flesh starts screaming for its mother.

Her dark eyes watch him steadily. "This was your idea. Not mine. I'll teach you, but you'd better learn quickly."

He knows. She didn't ask for any of this—not the little boys in her arms and near her feet, nor the child growing in her belly. All of it is his fault, and he's very aware. He'll make it right for her, he swears he will, just as soon as he figures out how.

And for the boys, too. He feels more than a little guilt over those tears. The kids are used to leaving home for the _teas_ every few moons but they usually go to the local village, and they usually stay together in a pack. Now the little guys are without their eldest brothers, without Antoine's girls, and surrounded by strangers. He wishes he could do something to fix this, but he doesn't know how. They want something familiar, and right now the only thing available is Maeve.

"IT'S TRULY FASCINATING," Firouz says, peering down at Rory and Con huddled near his feet. "YOU KNOW, BOTH PLATO AND GALEN POSTULATED ON THE ATTACHMENT OF INFANTS TO THEIR CAREGIVERS, BUT NOT TO SIBLINGS."

"Sometimes a brother is all you have," Doubar says, clapping Sinbad on the back.

"And all you need," Maeve agrees. She smiles gently at the big man. He doesn't know her past, doesn't know how eerily similar her story is to Sinbad's in some ways, but their attachment to their siblings is something she, Dermott, Doubar, and Sinbad all share.

"They're lucky little guys, having brothers so close in age. You said there was one more?"

"Two—five altogether." Maeve rolls her eyes. "So far."

"That man is crazy," Talia says flatly. "The poor woman even worse."

Maeve shrugs, moving to investigate the crates left with the children. "He wants a girl, she doesn't mind the herd of boys, and it's none of my business."

"He wants a girl? What for?" Doubar laughs. "Any man whose wife keeps throwing boys like that ought to count his blessings."

Maeve scowls at the big man, and Sinbad can't blame her. Doubar means no harm but he likes little boys, expects a nephew soon—though from whom, exactly, Sinbad isn't sure at this point—and just isn't interested in the idea of a little girl. For himself, Sinbad thought he preferred a son because he knew what to do with a boy. He's quickly learning, however, that he has no real idea what to do with a very small child either way.

"I DIFFER WITH PLATO IN THIS RESPECT," Firouz bellows, tapping his chin with his thumb as he watches the boys at his feet. "I DON'T BELIEVE AT THIS AGE THERE'S REALLY MUCH PRACTICAL DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BOYS AND GIRLS."

"There's every difference," Doubar insists.

"There is not." Maeve tears a hunk from a loaf of bread, dips it in the large crock of honey, and hands half to the boy in her arms. The other half she gives to Rory, who suddenly looks much happier. "All babies want security and safety—food and comfort. As they grow they want to explore, too. That goes for girls and boys."

"Why are you giving them honey?" Doubar protests, ignoring her words. "It's late, nearly time for them to turn in."

"Because they're not screaming," Maeve says, licking her fingers and ignoring the first mate's disapproval. "And because I'm not their mother. You want to be strict? Go ahead. That's not my job."

Doubar grunts. "I can see I'm going to have just loads of help the next few days."

So far Doubar hasn't done anything but be rejected by the baby—Maeve has done it all. Sinbad keeps his mouth shut. He doesn't need to sow any more discord.

But Doubar does bring up a good point. They're down a cabin and suddenly have three new heads in need of resting places. He rubs the bridge of his nose as he thinks. "All right," he says, cutting off whatever sharp retort Maeve was about to make to Doubar. "We're going to have to make some changes for a while. Maeve, I want you and the boys in my cabin. There's not room for all of them in your bunk. Talia gets your cabin, and I'm bunking down with the rest of the crew." This all would have been much easier if Firouz hadn't blown up the extra cabin, but there's not much he can do about that now.

"No," Maeve says, very firmly.

"No?"

"Nope." She shakes her head. "I just told you I'll teach you, but they're your responsibility. That goes for nights, too. You're on your own."

"Uh…" He hesitates, trying to gauge the look in her eye, how serious she is about her refusal. He needs to learn. He knows he does. But right now he knows nothing and those boys are scared. Is she really going to just leave him like that?

Talia cackles. "Now this is a show I'd pay to see."

Sinbad glares at her. "That can be arranged." Though he can't really be any more irritated with her than he is with the rest of the crew, who are all hiding their mouths behind their hands but doing a terrible job at smothering their snickers. Even Firouz, with Rongar's help, comprehends enough to laugh.

"I don't care what you all do, so long as it doesn't involve me," Talia says. "I'll bunk with the crew or with the hothead, but not with her _and_ three rugrats. I don't mind sleeping with guys, but I draw the line at anyone who can't make it through the night without pissing his britches, young or old."

Maeve snorts. "Never get married then, pirate."

"I don't intend to. That foolishness is not for me. Neither should you, though, you know. You may be able to wrangle shrimps but you don't have the temperament to constantly be placating a husband."

Sinbad's afraid Maeve may explode, but instead she laughs, warm and amused. "I take that as a compliment. Besides, Celts don't marry."

"IT'S TRUE," Firouz pipes in. "MARRIAGE IS THE PURCHASE OF A BRIDE FROM HER FATHER AND CELT MEN DO NOT LEGALLY OWN THEIR DAUGHTERS. THEREFORE—"

"We get it, genius." Talia pats his shoulder. "I don't need an hour-long lecture on barbarian law."

"You disregard the laws anyway, whether you know them or not." Maeve lets Duncan down when he wiggles in her arms and reaches for the deck. He heads for the railing and Sinbad doesn't have to be told to follow. That's an accident waiting to happen.

"Disregard laws? Me?" Talia scoffs.

"What do you call skipping out on taxes and moorage fees? Getting your ship impounded?" Maeve smiles sweetly at the pirate.

"I can explain that. And anyway, it beats getting peed and puked on repeatedly, which was my original point, I think. I forget. Something about...right. I'm not sleeping with the rugrats. I refuse. You want to, you go right ahead. What would a Celt know about cleanliness?"

"What would a pirate?"

"Enough," Sinbad says mildly as he watches Duncan stick his head through the railing, peering down at the dark water below. He's close enough that he can grab the kid if he topples, but it looks like the boy's just curious. It's hard to be sure with Maeve, but it actually seems like the two women might be enjoying themselves? Which makes no sense to him, but as long as no one's screaming or bleeding he guesses it doesn't matter.

"House drowning," Duncan says, lifting his face and staring at Sinbad solemnly. He points at the black water below. "Wet."

Okay, that's kind of cute. And reasonably perceptive. Sinbad has no idea what a two-year-old's brain is capable of, and decides this kid is sharp. "Not exactly," he says. "Come here, let me show you." He lifts the little boy cautiously, a little afraid the kid might fight him or put up a fuss, but he doesn't. He lets Sinbad pick him up as easily as Maeve did, his hands curling around fistfuls of his blue vest. Sinbad locks the kid firmly in one strong arm and grabs a line with the other, swinging them to the dock. The boy squeals and clutches him tight, but Sinbad knows that sound. That's a squeal of delight, not fear. He grins. Maybe this kid thing won't be so hard after all. "Look—I know it's dark now. You'll see better in the morning. But that's a ship, not a house. My ship. It's like a big boat, and it floats on the water."

"Big boat," the boy agrees, his eyes wide.

"Very big." The Nomad isn't large as far as ships go, but it's probably huge to a kid this small. Sinbad tries to remember when he saw his first ship, but his memory just doesn't stretch back that far. Baghdad is a large, busy trading port on the Tigris, and when he was small Doubar would take him to watch the bustle at the docks. He remembers this well, but not specifically the sight of his first ship. Duncan has probably seen them before, too, at least from afar, but it seems he's never been aboard one before. Now he has. If his big brother Declan really wants to sail as badly as Niall says he does, he'll probably be insanely jealous that his little brothers got to spend the _teas_ not only with Maeve, but on a ship as well.

"Are you tired?" Sinbad asks. Holding a little kid isn't so bad, especially one that's not screaming. Maybe this is how to play this game, he decides. One at a time. Divide and conquer. Three at once is too many for him, but he can handle one kid. And one's all he's ever having. His child can make friends with their cousins on Breakwater, or with Doubar's children if he ever has any. That's just as good as having a brother, isn't it? Rory seems to think so. He prefers Mia over his blood siblings.

"No," Duncan says, sucking a sticky spot on his finger. "Honey?"

"You just had some. It's all over you now."

"Go home?"

"No, not right now. A few days. You get to stay on my ship with Maeve. You like her, right?"

"Auntie," Duncan agrees. At least, Sinbad thinks that's what he says. It's hard to tell with his fingers in his mouth.

"Yeah, you're lucky. Don't forget that. If I tried to climb on her I'd get slapped. Or knocked overboard. Enjoy it while you can."

Duncan laughs.

"I notice your feet are still bare. Should you be wearing shoes?"

"No."

"Do you ever wear shoes?"

"No."

"I see. Is 'no' the answer to every question right now?"

"Honey."

"Right." Sinbad grabs the line again. "Hold on, kid." He swings them back aboard.

"Again!"

"No, no more now." He puts the boy down. Honestly, he'd swing him back and forth indefinitely if it makes the kid laugh, but Doubar was right when he said it was getting late. Don't kids go to bed early? They should probably start at least thinking about that.

"Me next!" Rory struggles to stand, spilling his baby brother from his lap. Rongar's quick reflexes rescue the baby from a tumble, though he holds the little one awkwardly away from his body and angles the squirming, protesting baby toward Maeve in entreaty.

She wouldn't take him from Sinbad but she takes him from Rongar, chuckling at his unease. "He's a baby, not one of Firouz's exploding sticks."

"Oh, babies explode. All the time. From both ends. Don't trust a word she says," Talia calls from a safe distance away.

Rongar taps the handle of a dirk firmly sheathed in his bandoleer.

"Excuses." Maeve smirks at him. "He's not strong enough to pull a blade free yet."

Rongar shakes his head firmly and taps a hilt again.

"Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that." She tucks the baby against her chest and kisses the side of his head. Rory somehow managed to dribble honey all over his brother's head as he ate, but Maeve isn't complaining and the baby's not screaming so Sinbad refuses to worry.

Rory tugs on the leg of Sinbad's _sirwal_ as he swings Duncan to the deck. "Me next."

"What you do for one brother you have to do for both," Maeve calls.

That much Sinbad knows. He's a brother, too. He and Doubar weren't often rivals, but the times they were he remembers vividly. He picks the bigger boy up and swings them to the dock amid a flurry of giggles. "There. Is that what you wanted?"

"Yes," Rory agrees. "Do it again."

"Tomorrow, maybe. I bet Firouz can devise a way for you to safely swing yourselves around." Sinbad hitches him a little higher in his grasp. "Would you like that? To be able to swing yourself?"

"Yes."

"Okay. We'll ask him tomorrow." This seems like a good use of Firouz's time. If he can devise a way for the boys to amuse themselves safely, the rest of the crew can get more work done. "I think it's just about time for bed tonight."

Rory slumps in his grip.

"What's the matter?" Sinbad knows the boys don't really want to be here. They don't know him very well, and they want their parents. Still, he kind of hoped they were getting past that.

"Mia," Rory says, staring down at the rough wooden pier.

Right. Mia. Sinbad feels for the boy, he really does. These kids may be small and not able to speak and understand at the level of an adult, but he believes they feel just as strongly as he does. "I know, kid. You miss your friend."

Rory drapes his little self along Sinbad's chest and drops his cheek to his shoulder. "Mia's my twin."

She isn't, actually, but Sinbad's not going to argue. He gets it. He covers Rory's head gently with his palm, letting him lean against him. Rory and Mia are as enmeshed, in their childish way, as Sinbad and Maeve. Mia's the light, Antoine said once, and Rory's her shadow. When she moves, he moves. That's exactly how Sinbad feels when he thinks about it. Maeve is the moon, he's the tide. Not being able to touch her, to talk to her openly, is torture, but having her half a world away would be far worse. At least, as adults, he and Maeve get to make this choice together. She wants to stay until it grows too dangerous. Rory didn't get a choice. So yeah, he gets it. Whether the children are meant to fall in love someday or continue as bloodless twins doesn't matter. What matters is that the poor kid is hurting and there's nothing Sinbad can do to fix it. He can't accept responsibility for a _sìthiche_ child on his ship, especially with Talia aboard.

"I know, buddy." He rubs the kid's hair softly. "I wish I could fix it for you. For both of us." Unfortunately, it seems the only answer for either of them is time. Rory will be back home with Mia inside a week. Sinbad will have to wait even longer. "I can't do anything about Mia, but I can try to make things fun for you while you're here. Does that sound fair?"

Rory shrugs. Yeah, Sinbad agrees. Although promises of honey and swings and adventure stories probably go further at four years old than they do at Sinbad's age.

"Come on. Maeve says you're bunking with me tonight. That should be an adventure in itself." He swings them back across to the deck.

Still holding Rory, who doesn't struggle to be put down, Sinbad herds Duncan gently in front of him, opening the door and watching the two-year-old's unsteady progress down the steps into the galley. He drops to all fours to make it down the steep steps and once more Sinbad isn't sure about such little bare feet on his ship. "Shouldn't they be wearing shoes?" he asks, feeling Maeve's soft presence at his back.

"You can try if you really want, but they won't keep them on. They're not used to it. It's not a battle Niall and Wren have ever cared enough to fight."

"Barbarians," Talia mutters from somewhere further behind, but there's no heat to it.

"You wear them," Sinbad protests, watching Duncan straighten and progress further into the galley. "How did you adjust?"

"I didn't have to adjust. I wore shoes as a kid, when I had them. I just didn't usually have them. Bring those crates, will you?" she calls behind her.

Sinbad's jaw clenches and he says nothing. He doesn't like these reminders of how precarious Maeve's life was as a child, particularly after the massacre. Dermott did the best he could for her and Keely, he knows he did, but they grew up with literally nothing and nothing Sinbad can give her now will ever erase that fact. She carries the scars of it with her, invisible but very detectable to his heart. She could so easily have died of illness or starvation, or not woken up after a frigid northern night. He holds the weight of her four-year-old nephew in his arms, tries to imagine her so small, alone with just her older brother, struggling to keep warm, to feed themselves, before he surrendered to circumstance and gave her to the scholars at Brí Leith. The reality of her situation sickens him, souring his stomach. She was so small, and her world was so cold. Anything might have happened to her; the slightest mistake could have killed her. He could have gone his entire life without ever knowing her, forever missing such a huge part of himself. What happens to the tide without the moon? He holds Rory close, the boy's warmth solid and comforting though it's a poor substitute for what he really wants.

"Anyway," Maeve says, unaware of his bitter musing, "the boys have shoes. They just don't like them. Do you, Rory?"

The boy shakes his head. "Tight. Itchy."

"What about when it snows? What if they get stepped on by a horse?" He can think of numerous very good reasons to put small children in shoes right off the top of his head. The more he samples this whole parenthood thing, the less he likes it. It feels like it's going to be a solid decade and a half of utter panic, constant overwhelming fear of something terrible happening to his kid. He already worries enough about Maeve. What will he do when he has two souls he cares for more than his own?

"If they get cold or stepped on, they may make a different decision the next time," Maeve says mildly, laying the baby gently on the table. "It's not quite the crisis situation you imagine."

"What's a barbarian?" Rory asks as Sinbad sets him down.

"Us," Maeve says, digging in an open crate for clean linen. "Be proud. It means we were never conquered by Rome."

"Da's from Rome."

"Yes, but your mother conquered him, not the other way around."

"Atta girl," Talia says, investigating the crates. "That's the way it should be. What are you going to do with all these limes?"

Maeve ignores her. She taps Rory's nose lightly. "Are you the one who got honey all over your brother?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. You can help Sinbad clean him up. He's also wet." Her dark eyes flick up to her captain. "Do you know how to change him?"

"Uh…"

Behind him, Talia and Doubar snicker.

Maeve rolls her eyes, but she also smiles, so Sinbad doesn't take offense. Much, anyway. "I'll show you once. Once. After that, you're on your own unless you can bribe Doubar into doing it."

"I may be bribable," Doubar agrees, chortling. "For the right price."

Or maybe Rory's bribable. Sinbad bets the kid knows how, and is probably cheaper than Doubar. He won't make the kid actually do it, but he may need more than one lesson. He watches Maeve's hands carefully as she speaks, because he knows she's not kidding when she says she'll show him once and no more.

"I dressed as a boy for a time, when I was younger. After the fire." Her hands work deftly. "There. You want it tight enough that it doesn't leak, not so tight that it bothers him."

Duncan clambers onto the table and licks the honey still stuck to his brother's head. Maeve says nothing. On the one hand, Sinbad thinks that's a little bit disgusting. On the other, it's less mess for him to clean up. And he's concentrating too hard on what Maeve's doing to really care at the moment. Firouz needs to invent something better than this, he's already convinced. Something that doesn't require so many tucks and folds, something that an active little guy like Con can't wiggle his way out of. He's convinced that that scrap of linen is going to fall off at some point, it's just a matter of time, and he'd really prefer it not happen in his bed.

Talia snorts. "You could never pass for a boy."

Maeve takes no insult. "It didn't last long." She picks Con up and cradles him against her chest. "Does he have a blanket?"

Doubar glances in the crates. "I don't see one." He takes the baby from her, bouncing him gently. "Maybe your papa left you with Sinbad because he's just as clueless as our captain, huh?"

Con laughs, reaching for Doubar's beard as the big man's face breaks into a smile. It's adorable, despite how sticky the kid is. Sinbad hasn't seen his brother smile like that in a long time. He knows Doubar's happiness will only increase when it's his own niece or nephew he's holding.

"Niall has five kids; he's not clueless. He knows it's hot in the south—maybe he thought he wouldn't need one." Maeve ducks into her cabin and returns a moment later holding a robe of heavy green silk that must have been part of the gift of clothing Queen Nadia gave her ages ago. She tucks it around the baby as Doubar holds him gently. It's the first time they've been so close without snapping at each other in moons. "I'll cut it down for him tomorrow. He can survive with a full-sized robe tonight."

"You can't give that to a baby!" Talia protests. "Do you have any idea what that much silk is worth, especially with a dye that rich?"

Maeve looks at her mildly. "You have a better idea? The cheap wool blankets on this ship are too scratchy for a baby and I'm not cutting down my cotton."

"That huge feather-filled cotton monstrosity is probably almost as expensive as the robe," Talia snaps. "But you don't put babies in silk. Everyone knows that! Even princes, unless they're being formally presented. Silk isn't made to be shat on!"

Maeve shrugs. "It's what I have. What I do with my things is none of your business."

She's right. Sinbad might protest if she did try to cut down her red blanket from Breakwater because he knows it gives her comfort. She wouldn't have brought it back with her if it didn't. But other than that, he refuses to get involved. Those clothes were a gift from a grateful queen and they're Maeve's to do with as she pleases. If she wants to make blankets or baby clothes out of them, that's her right. He bets Queen Nadia would laugh, too, to see a little baby attired in something she or her ladies used to wear.

Doubar seems to agree. He bounces Con gently as the kid tugs at his beard. "This little shrimp will look like a regular little prince, all decked out in silk."

Talia still looks outraged but says nothing more.

"Okay, let's just try to get some sleep, people," Sinbad says. "It's going to take a few more days to fix the Nomad, and after that we'll be heading to Attalia to see about Talia's ship. The boys will be with us for about a week, give or take, so it's best we all get used to each other." He clears his throat and looks at Maeve with what he hopes is not quite a begging expression. "Uh...how do you put a kid to bed?"

She laughs and kisses the baby in Doubar's arms, then pulls away. "Goodnight, captain."

She can't be serious. "Come on, Maeve. They're my responsibility, I know that. But I also know you can't just snap your fingers and say 'go to sleep.'" He's just not sure what to do instead.

"You're intelligent. Figure it out." She unwinds Duncan gently from her leg, where he reattached himself at some point. "Try. That's all I'm asking." She enters her cabin and closes the door behind her.

Talia offers a coin to Rongar. "Ten _fals_ says he caves in less than ten minutes."

Rongar flashes a piece of silver and holds up five fingers, doubling her bet and reducing the time by half.

* * *

Closing in on two hours later, Sinbad is ready to admit defeat. He knows he has to learn how to do this. Soon he'll have his own baby to care for, one that can't be returned after a few days. But he has no idea what he's doing, the kids know it, and there are three of them. He was outnumbered and doomed from the start.

His cabin is large compared to Maeve's, a perk of being captain, but it's not big enough for himself, a screaming baby, and two small boys now literally climbing the walls and refusing to go to sleep. The rest of his crew abandoned him just after Maeve, apparently willing to let her give their captain a little grief for agreeing to this. No one on the ship is sleeping, not with the set of lungs this kid has. He can't help a little glimmer of satisfaction from that: they can abandon him but they can't really escape.

His head is truly pounding now, and the baby's shrieks make him feel helpless. He can't calm him. The kid is furious, and Sinbad didn't even know babies could get angry. This one definitely is, though. He's the color of a beet and his face is swollen and puffy, hot tears squeezing from his scrunched-up eyes. The boys have pulled everything off his shelves—not that he has much—and for the past two hours have been bickering and whining in their high, piping voices, running back and forth across the little room like caged tigers, occasionally shoving each other and trying to climb the shelves. The running and shoving he wouldn't mind, but Rory's got a solid ten pounds on his little brother at least, which is a lot when Duncan probably only weighs twenty-five. Neither of them have their sea legs yet, either, and every little shift and bob of the ship nearly sends them sprawling. Duncan's scraped up his nose and chin already, falling from the shelves before Sinbad could reach him, and the baby nearly rolled himself off the bed when Sinbad left him alone to grab his brother. He didn't even know the kid _could_ roll. Now he wonders what else he can do. What if he crawls away during the night? Gets lost somewhere in the bowels of the ship or manages to get on deck? They'd be so screwed. Maeve would never trust him again.

Whether the baby can crawl yet or not, Sinbad discovers something he definitely _can_ do when a foul smell hits his nose. Fuck, it smells like something died inside all those tucks and folds of linen. Is that normal? Or has he somehow managed to poison the kid already, despite not even giving him anything to eat yet? Should he have fed him already? How often did babies so small eat?

Yeah, he can't do this. Not alone. He wants to, he just doesn't know enough. He can't even remember Maeve's instructions for changing the baby. He pinches the bridge of his nose and considers his options. Doubar can show him how to change the kid, but the amount he'll charge will be extortion, not to mention the bruising his dignity will take for the asking. Going to Maeve might possibly be worse.

"Rory," he calls, decided, and he pulls a copper coin from his pocket.

The boy crawls around the foot of the bed, his brother on top of him as if riding a pony. "What?"

Sinbad holds up the coin. Rory stands, spilling Duncan to the floor. He has his attention. "Do you know how to change your brother?"

"Change him into what?" the boy says, and dissolves into hysterical giggles. Duncan follows.

Sinbad wants to groan. Whoever the kid learned that from ought to be thrown overboard. He suspects Antoine, but he can't say for sure.

"Bribery, Sinbad? Really now."

His stomach sinks. He turns slowly, finding Maeve lounging in the open doorway. She's beautiful and perfect and very amused, and also the last person he wants to see right now.

"Maeve!" Rory dives for her, Duncan a step behind. "I know a joke!"

"I heard. You know it's very late, don't you?"

"Very," Rory agrees proudly.

She chuckles and steps inside. "The rest of your crew abandoned you a while ago, you know," she says, droll amusement painting her expressive mouth as she eyes Sinbad and the screaming baby next to him. "Went into town to find wine and quiet beds."

"I'm not surprised." He sits on the edge of his bunk with a hard thunk. "I'm not sure what point you were trying to prove, but can we just agree that you win and move on?"

Her smile gentles. He hasn't seen that sweetness in her eyes, on her face, in far too long. It almost—almost—makes the past hours of chaos worthwhile. "No particular point, other than your need for practice before you have a baby of your own. But Doubar was having the time of his life listening to you squirm, and I hated to end his fun. However, since he's gone I figured it was time to give you a hand."

He's touched that Maeve is still willing to give Doubar a little joy despite their current animosity—even if it is at his expense. It gives him hope that they'll all be able to put this mess behind them after Samhain. "Thank you," he says, and means it. "But maybe now we can bring this night to a close?" Screaming that long can't be good for the poor baby, and the older boys need to be in bed. She's proved her point. He just needs some help.

"Gladly," she agrees. "It's hard to read with all this noise in the background." She lifts the baby into her arms, cooing softly to him. "I know. I know. Sinbad tried his best, but it's time to calm things down." She kisses his head gently and cradles him close. He doesn't magically stop crying but his cries shift in pitch, no longer angry, now something else Sinbad can't quite place. "Go get me two buckets of water. Fresh, please, since we're in port."

He'll fetch and carry whatever she wants if she can stop the baby from making those noises. He obeys, watching as she steps into the warmly lit galley, the boys at her heels.

"I'm hungry," Rory says, tugging at her belt.

"Hungry," Duncan echoes.

"Of course you are. You're up very late, and it's been a long time since you ate. I'll feed you, but I need to take care of your brother first."

"He's always first," Rory groans, throwing himself onto a bench.

"Not always. Sometimes Bran is, because he's the oldest."

"How come Bran gets to stay in the village and I don't?"

"Because I need you here. Is that okay?"

This pleases Rory enough that he quiets. Sinbad's going to have to remember that one. He sets the buckets on the table and Maeve heats them with a touch. She discards the soiled linen into one and the soiled baby into another.

"There you go." She puts a clean rag in Sinbad's hand. "Wash him."

"You mean—"

"All over. It will help calm him, and I think you can handle that much. Wait, I have soap." She disappears into her cabin and returns with a cake of creamy white olive oil soap that looks and smells suspiciously like what Omar of Basra provides to his guests. Sinbad hides a smile as she cuts slices of bread for the boys and pours them mugs of milk from the corked crockery jars Niall provided. She may not be as overtly...girly...as Rumina or as sticky-fingered as Talia, but she's not above swiping the sultan's expensive rose-scented soap. He lathers his cloth and watches her soothe the boys, and that strange gooey, melting feeling hits him hard again. Why her choice to take soap, of all things, is so endearing he doesn't know, but it is.

Whether calmed by the surprise of the warm water or relief at being free of the dirty linen, the baby chokes back a wail, sputters a few shallow coughs, and is mercifully silent. He stares up at Sinbad through slitted eyes that still look very judgmental.

"Maeve, the kid doesn't like me. I warned you ages ago. Kids don't like me."

"And I told you then, small children are like predators. They can smell fear." She laughs. "Just wash him. You'll make up."

If she says so. He's not so sure. But he can at least wash the kid. He handles him gently, using soap and the rag. Conall doesn't seem able to sit up on his own but with Sinbad's hand assisting he manages. He has the softest skin he's ever touched, maybe softer even than Maeve's, and he's slippery as a fish once wet.

"Can you tell me why the kid poops green? He wasn't sucking on the silk, I was careful about that."

"That's normal, so ask Firouz, not me." She wipes Duncan's face and hands with a damp cloth. "Are you ready to think about going to sleep now? You got to stay up very late."

The boy nods. "Late," he agrees. "Want mama."

"Soon," she promises, though Sinbad suspects the kid has already learned that word means nothing. "But I'll stay with you tonight if you want."

He sighs, a dejected sound that deflates his whole tiny body, but nods. "Stay."

She wipes Rory, then fetches her red blanket and drapes it over their shoulders. "Go get in bed. I'll be with you in a minute."

They burrow into the big, downy blanket, which doesn't really surprised Sinbad. They probably have one just like it on their own bed, or their parents do. Maeve finds that heavy warmth comforting, so there's no reason the boys shouldn't, too. They stumble into his cabin without protest, despite Sinbad giving them that exact order multiple times earlier in the evening with no luck.

"How do they listen to you? They don't listen to me."

"Kids like to test their limits, the same as you do. They already know they can't push me. And you taught them tonight just how far they can push you." She laughs and withdraws a glass bottle of milk from the crate, shakes it, and pours some into a shallow wooden bowl. "The glass bottles are for Con, the pottery jars for the other boys. Don't mix them up."

"Why not?"

"The glass bottles are human, the others are cow."

He's sorry he asked.

She heats the milk with a touch. How parents of small children survive without magic, Sinbad has no idea. Niall said there was a spell on the milk to keep it from souring, and Maeve can heat things almost without thought. Without magic they'd have to employ a wet nurse or nanny goat—and all the ensuing mess—to keep the baby fed. Doubar wasn't wrong to be grumpy about that prospect.

Maeve lifts the baby from the water and Sinbad pats him dry with more linen. The dirty rags in the other bucket are piling up quickly—kids apparently go through a lot of laundry, something he never considered before.

"How did you learn all this?" he asks as she lays the baby down on fresh linen. "You didn't have a mother to watch."

"Wren had Brandon already when we met them, and Declan was about to be born. We all learned quickly. There was no choice." She smiles at him. "I'm going to show you one more time. You handle canvas and rope without a problem. This should be easy."

"Tucks and folds are not the same thing as knots," he grumbles as he watches her swift movements. Conall quietly sucks his own fist.

"There." She bends and rubs her nose against the baby's. "Bring him to bed. If you feed him, he'll forgive you." She lifts the bowl of milk and a rag and heads for Sinbad's cabin.

Inside, the boys are sprawled on Sinbad's bunk, Maeve's heavy blanket tossed over them both. At first Sinbad thinks they're asleep, but all four eyes blink open when Maeve enters.

"Story," Rory says. Duncan yawns.

"About what?" She tucks the blanket around their little bodies and sets the bowl near Sinbad as he sits. "Here. Dip a corner and offer it to him. He doesn't like being fed by hand but he's got to be hungry by now."

"Yeah, I've seen Niall do this part." Sinbad settles his back against the wall, the baby settled in the crook of his arm as he remembers the boy's father held him. He also remembers Niall complaining about this particular baby's stubbornness, his unwillingness to take sheep's milk, which may be the reason for the bottled mother's milk. He dips the cloth and offers it. The baby's nostrils flare and his eyes blink as he considers his options.

"What sort of story do you want?" Maeve stretches out on her side, the boys between them on the wide bed. She props herself up on an elbow and doesn't protest as Duncan turns and curls against her belly. Sinbad wants to protest. That cute little kid has all the luck.

The baby, to his surprise, opens his mouth and accepts the milky rag. It may not be exactly what he wants, but after the chaos of the evening he's apparently willing to compromise. Sinbad exhales a deep breath. Maybe, with some help and guidance, he really can do this.

"Story about Étaín," Rory says, even as his head nods.

"Étaín's story is long, and not good for sweet dreams." She strokes Duncan's hair gently. "Pick something else."

"Étaín," Rory insists.

"Tomorrow. Would you like to hear about some boys we met who flew on magic carpets?"

"Yes," Duncan says before his brother can object.

So Maeve begins the tale, but both boys are asleep before she's even halfway through. She chuckles and sits up, tucking the blanket more firmly around them despite the warmth of the night. "How much did he eat?" She peers at the bowl.

"Almost all of it."

"Good." She yawns and takes the nodding baby from him. "He doesn't sleep through the night, you know. He'll be up in three or four hours looking for more."

"Of course he will." He represses a sigh. "What do I do?"

"Feed him, change him. Wake up Duncan, and maybe Rory too, for good measure. Make them pee so they don't have an accident in the bed. Hope they go back to sleep after." She smiles wryly. "Welcome to parenthood."

"No offense to your nephews, but I might prefer battling rock monsters."

She chuckles. "I didn't think children were so strange to you. We deal with them fairly often."

"Older boys. Boys who sleep through the night and can be trusted not to have accidents in the bed."

"Boys, huh?" There's a strange expression on her face, a look Sinbad can't place. He thought he knew her better than that, and it startles him.

"Hey. Are you still upset about what Doubar said earlier? When you mentioned Niall wants a girl?"

"Doubar?" She blinks, then drops her eyes, refusing to look at him. She holds the baby against her shoulder, cupping his little head with the back of her hand. "Nothing Doubar says bothers me anymore."

That's not true, though Sinbad wishes it was. He knows she's lying the instant she says it. "Maeve." His hand reaches for her.

She ducks away. "Don't. Besides, you still have work to do."

"I do?" He glances around. It's the middle of the night, and all three boys are finally asleep. What could be left to do?

"Yep. Laundry. At least twice a day, every day, or we'll run out of linen. You don't want that."

No, he doesn't. But that expression on her face unsettled him, and he's unwilling to just drop the subject. If it wasn't Doubar's unthinking comment that bothered her, what was it? "Did you really disguise yourself as a boy after the fire?" he asks cautiously. Is that discussion what bothered her? Talia did try to refute her.

"I did," she says. That strange expression doesn't return to her face, but no trace of a smile does, either. "For a time. Dermott cropped my hair short and put me in breeches. I felt safer." One shoulder hitches. "It didn't last long."

Nor could it have. Talia was right about that.

"Go," she says, nodding him toward the door. "I'll stay here tonight, like you asked. Tomorrow, you're on your own."

_A/N: FYI, I'm starting a second job this coming week and I don't know yet how that will affect chapters and posting. I still would love to get to Samhain by Samhain (Halloween)!_


	26. Chapter 26

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Four days after the arrival of her nephews, Maeve admits she didn't expect things aboard the Nomad to calm so quickly. That first night was a disaster by almost any measurement, most of the crew going so far as to sleep in town to escape a wailing Conall. She had to rescue Sinbad from the boys, though she honestly didn't mind as much as she let on. She knew she was going to have to bear the brunt of babysitting; that was inevitable. Not because she's a woman—she slaps down that assumption quickly whenever someone voices it—but because she and Doubar are the only ones with any real experience, and because the boys know her. They trust her.

Maeve seats herself carefully at the base of the mast, a cup of milk in one hand, Con's wiggly body held tight against her with the other. He's getting a bit heavy to hold with just one arm, especially with the way he now moves, wriggling and twisting in her grasp. He only just learned how to roll over a little while ago; she had to soothe Sinbad's fear that he'd go crawling off on his own in the middle of the night. He's not quite ready for that yet, but she's glad her sailor thinks and worries about these things. He'll have to—they'll both have to—when their daughter arrives.

Things improved quickly after that first night; she's honestly a little shocked at how much. The boys still miss their home and would rather be there, but Duncan is easy to distract and Con settles quickly when she or Doubar hold and croon to him. Rory is made of tougher stuff, his bond with Mia suffering at such a distance. Maeve understands and doesn't chide him when he cries, as Doubar would like to. He's only four years old, and he and Mia have been raised as twins. Separating them isn't right, and Maeve will do her best to ensure it doesn't happen again, even if it means she has to take responsibility for both of them during the _teas_. Maybe Sinbad could drop her and the two children on an uninhabited island? It's only for three days at a time. She'd rather be without her sailor, much as it hurts, than to witness Rory's pain. She'd almost even be willing to chance bringing Mia aboard the Nomad, except with Talia around that's a nonstarter. She trusts Rongar with her life—her daughter's life. Firouz, too. She would have said the same of Doubar before this whole mess. But not Talia. The potential bounty for a living _sìthiche_ child would be too tempting for the pirate. No. Not in a million years.

Maeve settles her back against the mast and puts the milk down, shifting Con into the crook of her arm. It's midday, time for a break. He mewls softly at her, eager for milk. She likes his warm, wiggly weight, the way he blinks up at her with big eyes and soft eyelashes. She's generally been making Sinbad and Firouz feed the baby, but while everyone else is below eating she doesn't mind taking a turn. Her queasiness hasn't let up yet, so it's easier for her to feed Con so no one else has to juggle his feeding while trying to eat. She has no idea whether she should still be feeling sick at the smell of food or not and she wishes she had someone she could ask, but she doesn't. She's not speaking to Keely and she can't risk asking a local midwife for anything. Maybe if Wren comes to collect the boys, though she'll have to switch languages. Wren may not even know the answer, though. Keely uses magic to stop Wren's queasiness, so she may not have an answer to when this feeling might let up. Maeve is starting to feel a little anxious, and wishes she had an answer. The only thing she can reliably keep down is Keely's herbal mixture, which is soothing but not actually food. She can eat nibbles of plain bread or cold gruel if it's cooked well enough, boiled to mush as Con requires, but only a spoonful or two at a time and only at odd hours, when the ship doesn't smell so strongly of fire or food. She needs to eat so her daughter can grow strong and she knows this, but she doesn't know how if her belly won't accept food. She's aware of changes in her body, things she can see with her own eyes, caused by her daughter's presence inside. Her midsection is thicker, but she's dropped weight elsewhere—her arms are wirier, her cheeks leaner. No one else has noticed, she's fairly sure. At least, no one's said anything to her. It's for the best. She can cinch her waist down, continue to skip meals and nibble when she's able. Sinbad gave her permission and as long as he doesn't mind she doesn't care what anyone else thinks.

"You're a lucky kid," she says, dipping the corner of a clean rag and offering it to Con. Firouz swears there must be a better way to hand-feed a baby but he hasn't presented them with an invention to test yet. "I know you don't understand yet, but you have a lot of people who love you. You'll never have to wonder where your next meal is coming from, or sleep in the snow. And you have plenty of brothers, so odds are at least one of them will decide to like you."

He sucks the milky rag with single-minded intensity, ignoring her words. Con doesn't like being fed by hand, doesn't like the rag being constantly removed from his mouth to replenish the milk. He wants to latch on and stay there, as he would with his mother. Maeve wishes she could fix this for him but there's nothing she or anyone else on the Nomad can do about it. At least he seems resigned to this compromise: they don't try to feed him sheep's milk and he takes the rag without too much fuss.

For herself, Maeve is glad she won't have to worry about the _teas_ while she's caring for her own baby. She won't have to choose to either leave home or leave her daughter for days at a time, as Wren must choose every three moons. Wren has five and she's used to this—leaving them probably wrenches, but it's as much a relief as it is a pain at this point. Maeve doesn't ever want more than just the one, and she doesn't think she could bear to leave her daughter so young for such a long time. She strokes Con's warm head, his little wisps of dark hair; he protests, reaching for the rag in her hand.

"I know. Back to business. But you need to slow down, you're going to give yourself hiccups again." Which is more cute than it is annoying, except that hiccups make him mad and then he starts crying. She dips the rag, then slips it back in his mouth. She watches him suck with single-minded intensity, the concentration on his little face, the way his fist wraps around the rag, seeking something to hold onto. He was born smaller than his brothers and has been slower to grow, slower to reach for things, to roll, to hold up his own heavy head. Keely says not to worry, that all babies are different and he's not unduly slow at anything, and Keely doesn't give false reassurance so Maeve doesn't worry for her nephew. She does wish she could voice her fears about her daughter and have Keely wave them away with as little thought. That would settle her nerves more than anything else in the world.

The sound of booming male laughter from below reaches her, and the piping lilt of Duncan's voice. Maeve smiles as she dips the rag again. Her men are good ones. No one could deny that. And after the initial awkwardness they've taken to the boys faster than Maeve expected. Doubar didn't react well to Sinbad's choice to bring the boys aboard, but all three scalawags have him wrapped around their fingers. He grumbles and complains about Maeve babying them and no one else helping—neither of which is true—but the next moment he's giving them honey or fruit and letting them climb all over him. He brought them sugarcane from the market despite the price, and showed them how to peel away the tough outer layer to get at the softer fibers and sweet juice within. The exaggerated faces and sweeping movements he makes while storytelling delight both boys, and his ability to keep Duncan's interest is particularly striking; Duncan's attention span rarely lasts through anyone else's stories.

At Sinbad's urging and with Rongar's help, Firouz attached two ropes to the yardarm and fitted a plank of wood, sanded smooth, to the lower ends, on which the boys can swing themselves relatively safely. Duncan bloodied his nose in a fall and Rory scraped up his bare shins but they haven't accidentally strangled themselves or fallen overboard, so Maeve counts that as a complete success. Firouz insists it was no trouble and that he's seen children playing with similar devices many times, but Maeve is still impressed. She suspects a swing will quickly be affixed to at least one of the trees in Ant's orchard once the boys go home.

Rongar is still nervous around the baby, and still claims it's because of the blades he carries. He's not fooling Maeve, though. Like many strong men she's met, he's afraid he's going to hurt such a small, fragile little human. He won't get over that fear without actually spending time with Con, holding him and proving to himself that he's capable of handling the child without breaking him, but she can't force him. It will come with time.

If Maeve is honest with herself—something she struggles with—she has to admit that she melts badly every damn time she sees Sinbad with the boys, especially the baby. She kept her promise and has made Sinbad care for them at night, but since she rises early anyway, she's taken over Con's early morning feeding. When she enters Sinbad's cabin in the early morning hush and sees all four of them sprawled haphazardly across his bunk, oblivious to the world, it touches her deeply in a way she's never felt before. Watching Antoine or Niall or any other man interact with small children has never made her feel like this before. Watching Sinbad interact with children never has, either, though she's never seen him hold a baby before Con.

But there's sorrow in her, too, a heaviness she can't shake. Her men are good men and learning fast when faced with the dilemma of three small boys in need of care—but that's just it. Her nephews are nephews. Boys. Doubar expects a nephew. Sinbad expects a son, she assumes—all fathers do. She can't give him that, at least not this time, and she's not keen on the idea of another try. She's not carrying a boy. She's carrying a daughter, a little girl. And that's a problem.

For the Tam Lin Protocol, girl or boy makes no difference. Her child is the key, the only way to save Sinbad's soul. But when the Protocol is finished, the deed done, Maeve will be left with a female child in her belly, and southern men don't want daughters. Even in her world girls have less value than boys. Only _sìthichean_ don't seem to care, in her experience, welcoming every new member of their waning race regardless of sex. Maeve has lived in the south long enough to have seen for herself the pressure put on wives to produce male children and the consequences for doing otherwise. Wives can and often are cast off for producing daughters. Newborn girls are smothered at birth by their own weeping mothers or exposed in the wilds for predators to find. These things happen among her people, too—she's not stupid enough to believe they don't—but not as openly. Not with such casual frequency.

And Maeve also knows these dire fates are not ones she has to fear for herself, even in her darkest nightmares. Sinbad would never, never offer harm to his own child, nor expect it of Maeve, either. Even if this child were a complete accident and not the key to his salvation, he wouldn't harm her. He lacks the inherent cruel streak many men possess.

But that doesn't mean he wants a daughter.

Maeve knows this world and how it works. She's known the truth of it almost since she was born. Had she been born a boy, her own father might have tolerated her better, might not have believed she was the illegitimate result of an untrue woman. Were she a boy, her mother might still be alive.

When she's honest with herself and thinking logically, Maeve knows she's not to blame for her mother's death. She feeds Con and stares into the blinding glimmer of midday sun on the sea, feels the foreign heat on her northern skin even as her mind turns back, years and leagues away from this place and time. She was three years old, Dermott thinks, he eight or nine, when he came home from fishing with his friends and found their mother's body cold on the floor, her head in Maeve's lap, blood slowly congealing on his little sister's skirt, her fingers, as she stroked her mother's bloody hair. She remembers screaming when he hauled her up, forced her away from their mother, fighting him with her nails, her teeth, anything she could manage. She knew. Deep down, she knew that once her brother dragged her out that door she was never going to see her mother again.

And yes, rationally, she understands that her mother's death wasn't her fault. She doesn't even remember what sparked the fight. It could have been her existence—they often fought about that, Dermott says. But it could just as easily have been something else. Her father was a mean man and a meaner drunk, and when his fists flew he did not hold back no matter who stood before him, man, woman, or small child. Her death is his fault and no one else's: his blow cracked her head into the side of the table, his booted feet kicked her body when she fell and did not stir. His rough voice called and called for Maeve, but even at her young age she knew better than to answer. Wedged between the butter churn and the wall, a sack of oats concealing her well in the corner shadows, she stayed hidden until his boots stomped unevenly away. The reek of whiskey eased and the silence lured her to her mother's side.

Logically, she knows all of these facts. She can recite them as Dermott and the scholars at Brí Leith and even Dim-Dim told her—her father did it all. None of it was her fault. But, no matter how many times she hears this, pieces of her heart still doubt. If she had never been born, maybe he wouldn't have been so violent with her mother. Or maybe, if she'd been born a boy, he wouldn't have doubted the woman's fidelity. Maybe he would have been kinder to a woman who successfully gave him two sons instead of a single boy and a daughter whose paternity he chose to doubt.

Maeve touches Con's fine, dark eyebrow, tracing the tiny, silken threads. He's lucky. Not just because he was born male, but because he has two parents who love him just as he is, and a sprawling extended family, all of whom would gladly take over the task of raising him and his brothers should anything happen to his mother or father. He won't ever be in the position Dermott was at eight years old, forced to grow up in the span of a single afternoon with no one to help or guide him. No one nearby was willing to take them in. They couldn't afford two additional mouths to feed, and were unwilling to risk the wrath of their father, besides. One or two might have considered taking Dermott alone: he was old enough to work and be of some use, and he had friends among the other local boys. But not Maeve. Not a female child too small to earn her keep and generally understood to be troublesome besides. Dermott saved her life by taking her from their father, saved her life by not abandoning her though their neighbors refused aid. And now he's gone, because she prioritized Sinbad's life above her brother's.

But these are things Con won't ever have to worry about. Maeve shoves her guilt ruthlessly down. Indulging it does no one any good. Her daughter won't ever find herself in that position either, Maeve vows. She doesn't blame her mother for anything, but the fact remains that the first few years of Maeve's life were full of pain and fear and chaos, and her mother failed the most crucial task of parenthood: to protect her children. Dermott, by his own telling, was spared the brunt of their father's temper, most likely because of his position as the only son. Maeve and her mother were not. She doesn't remember much of those short years before her mother's death, and what she does remember she'd rather forget. She doesn't blame her mother, but she vows that she will not repeat the woman's mistakes.

For years, it seemed the simplest way to do this was to never have children of her own. This vow she made many times during her childhood and adolescence, promising herself, promising the universe, and yet here she sits today, uncomfortably close to a situation she wanted nothing to do with. She swore she would never have children, would never subject a new, innocent soul to the cruelties of this world, but circumstance has thrown that longstanding vow out the window. She's carrying not only a child, but a daughter, a little girl just as vulnerable as Maeve herself was, so long ago. And Sinbad has always made his feelings on the matter abundantly clear: he's not interested in having children. In his mind being a father means being tied down, and that's just not his style.

Then Scratch and Rumina came along and scuttled his plans.

Maeve lifts Con to her shoulder and rubs his back as he babbles quietly to himself, closing her eyes against the glare of the sun. Only the glare of the sun, she tells herself firmly. She's not crying. She never cries, at least not where she can be seen.

She understands that Sinbad doesn't actually want a child, and she doesn't begrudge him his feelings. He can't change them. The heart wants what the heart wants. But it hits far too close to her own hidden wounds for comfort. Her father didn't want her, and she can't quite shake the secret, nagging doubts that her birth, the arrival of an unwanted female child, spurred her father's anger and resulted in her mother's death. Her own hypocrisy twists her gut, as she prepares to bring her own daughter into a situation where she isn't wanted.

Sinbad isn't like Maeve's father, and she knows this. She wouldn't be sailing with him if he were. He's vowed to take care of the child she carries, and she believes he'll do everything in his power to keep that vow. But he never vowed to love it. She's very, very aware of that. He's a good man and she loves him. Maybe more importantly, she trusts him. He won't hurt her child, won't ever intentionally cause harm. Son or daughter, he'll do his duty. But she doesn't want his duty. She wants him to love his daughter just as thoroughly as he'd love a son. And that's something she can't force. He's learning quickly with her nephews, gaining confidence by the hour though he probably doesn't realize it yet. But all that will change, she knows it will, the moment she tells him she's carrying a girl.

That's a change she's not ready for, so she holds her tongue. Things don't need to change yet. He doesn't need to know. Most fathers don't until after the child is born. She can put it off for moons yet, if she chooses. Until after Samhain. After her battle with Scratch. One thing at a time, she tells herself as she holds Con against her shoulder. His head bobs heavily as he fights the pull of sleep. She loves her daughter, and the love of one parent seems to be enough for most girls. Only a lucky few like Mia and Lily have fathers who adore them. She can love her girl enough to make up for what Sinbad can't give. Maybe Dermott will learn to love her, if they find him again. If they can get past what he sees as betrayal. She'll never stop fighting to get her brother back, even if he never forgives her.

Footsteps sound on the stairs and the door squeaks open. Maeve inhales deeply, attempting to quiet her thoughts, steady her emotions. She's been a wreck lately, jumping from despair to anger to abject terror with no clear cause, but she hopes she's at least been able to hide some of it. She's not good at controlling her emotions or schooling their expression, but she's trying.

The heavy, clomping steps tell her instantly who it is: Doubar. The heavy vibrations through the deck and the pace of his footfalls tell her instantly. She's not sure whether she should brace herself for a contemptuous comment or not. Doubar's been much more tolerant of her since the boys' arrival, but there's no guarantee that will continue. She strokes Con's heavy head and rubs his back as his light breaths against her collarbone threaten to turn to tiny snores. She hopes Doubar just ignores her.

He doesn't.

His footsteps stop in front of her and his bulk blocks the sun. Reluctantly, she opens her eyes. He's silhouetted against the bright Mediterranean light.

"What do you want?" she asks, attempting to keep her voice even. When she was a child the scholars at Brí Leith attempted to drum courtesy into her. They told her to keep quiet if she had nothing nice to say, a lesson she never really did learn, though she understands the usefulness of it. In theory.

Doubar sits heavily on a crate, easing his bulk down. The wood creaks under him. He looks up at the mast, down at the water—anywhere but her. "You look good with a baby," he says finally, muttering the words swiftly, almost too low for her to catch.

Ordinarily this sort of comment would immediately earn any man a slap or worse, but Maeve manages to rein in that automatic response. This is Doubar, and that means a million things, many of them contradictory. She decides that slapping him probably isn't the best idea. Despite his ongoing anger with her, she still loves him. And she's not completely sure he won't fire back if she hits him first. Normally that chance wouldn't bother her, but as he stated, she's holding a baby. And carrying another. She has no wish to take risks with her nephew or her daughter.

"I thought you'd be no use with 'em," he continues, glancing up with his grey eyes for just a moment before staring at his feet again. "But you know them. More than that. You're used to this. Good at it."

"Why does that surprise you?" She adjusts Con gently in her arm. His hot little head shifts and his mouth smacks softly several times. His thumb finds its way into his mouth and he desists.

"You just...don't seem the type. And you refused Sinbad."

And of course they're back to this. Everything will always come back to this. Maeve breathes deeply as she struggles not to respond with a sharp retort. Doubar has every right to be angry, she reminds herself. She doesn't blame him for how he feels. She's never blamed him for that, and never would. He loves his brother more than anything else in this world, far more than his own life. How could he not be angry? He thinks she left Sinbad's soul to the mercy of Scratch and Rumina, who have none. She understands that. But, while she doesn't blame him for his anger, she does blame him, the tiniest bit, for believing the worst of her. Rongar doesn't. Rongar knows she'd never abandon Sinbad. She didn't have the Moor fooled for one minute. But Doubar seems to happily believe she'd choose her own future over Sinbad's soul, and that stings.

"I'm not like Talia," she says, watching the big man as he studiously avoids her eyes.

"No," he agrees. "You're certainly not." What exactly he means by that, she wishes she knew. She and Talia are alike in many ways—they're fighters to the core, and refused to accept what the world told them women had to be. They chose different paths. But they're very different people, for all that. Loyalty lies at the core of who Maeve is. It always has. Loyalty and the breaking of it built and molded her. She will never give up on the people she's chosen as family: Dermott, her clan at Breakwater, Dim-Dim, Sinbad and his crew. Talia's loyalty is just as fierce, but shifts moment to moment. Or maybe her loyalty is to herself alone—not a bad credo if she wants to remain alive in her line of work, but problematic for potential friends. And, crucial to this venture, Talia has no patience for small children.

The silence stretches between Maeve and Doubar, far longer than comfortable. Still she doesn't speak. Doubar wants to talk, she can tell by the troubled look on his face, but he's having difficulty turning his thoughts into words. This isn't uncommon with the first mate. He feels things deeply, sometimes so deeply that a chasm between emotions and words erupts within him. Firouz struggles at times to find the exact word in his vast vocabulary. Doubar struggles for the opposite reason—trying to find any word at all.

"You've been with us for a while now," he says finally. His grey eyes glance up at her but dart away again swiftly.

"Aye," she agrees. The hot, sleepy afternoon breeze touches her hair, blowing glittering red strands in her eyes. Con is like a tiny bonfire, leaking heat as he sleeps. She turns her head to lay her lips gently against his skin. Without the welcome shadow of the mast and the furled sail, she'd have to take him below to keep his delicate skin out of the baking sun. As it is she'll have to move soon to remain in the puddle of shade as the sun treks across the sky. "Almost two years. Why?" It doesn't feel nearly so long.

"I just...why?" He scowls, but Maeve is fairly sure he's frustrated with himself this time, his inability to express what he wants, and not with her. "To get Dim-Dim back, aye. But you could search for him on your own. You don't need us, strictly speaking."

_And we don't need you, strictly speaking, either._ He doesn't voice this part, but it's perfectly clear nonetheless. Maeve holds Con and considers how to answer. A curt "fuck you," would feel good, but wouldn't ultimately help anything.

"Rumina's my enemy, too," she says instead, choosing her words carefully. "She has been for a very long time. I want Dim-Dim back, and I need to defeat her. Since she has it out for me and alternately wants to kill or marry Sinbad, sticking together seems the most reasonable way to fight her."

"And yet by refusing to bear this child, you're willingly letting her win. Why? I don't understand."

The man is practically begging, begging for her to explain in a way he can understand—or ideally to change her mind. Her heart breaks for him. Sinbad says all the time that he's just a simple sailor, but that's not entirely true. His brother's the simple one—easy to understand, easy to love. He wants only to enjoy life, which he can't do when his brother's very soul is under threat.

"Doubar, please listen to me. I would never, _never_ willingly let Rumina win. Don't you know that?"

Finally he looks at her, but his grey eyes are cold. "I thought I did."

Maeve swallows against the tightening in her throat and turns her head away, toward the east, where they'll be headed in the morning. Rory and Duncan are excited to finally weigh anchor and set sail. Maeve is too, if she's honest. Talia has claimed more than once that Maeve is not a sailor at heart and maybe she's right—maybe she isn't. But she's a rover. A wanderer. She's not good at sitting still. A week in the same port is half a week too long. In this, at least, she and Sinbad are well matched. He needs the salt wind, she needs movement. Whether propelled by sail, horse, or her own two feet, she's not picky. She's been a vagabond almost her entire life. She can't stop now.

"You like Sinbad," Doubar says, choosing a different angle but the same topic. It will always be the same topic, from now until Samhain. Maeve doesn't have to be a fortune-teller to see that much. Doubar isn't able to put this aside.

"Of course I do," she says, and manages to even sound calm, which surprises her. Sinbad is her _céile_ by his own admission, something she never thought she'd ever have. She loves him more than almost anything else in this world—more than anything save the child growing within her. To say she likes him is like claiming the Mediterranean is slightly damp. But she can't say any more. Too many lives depend on her silence.

"He adores you. You have to know that by now."

"And you have to shut your mouth," she says, sharper than she intends, but she can't take it back now. "How many times do we have to tell you that Rumina is always watching?" Con shifts on her shoulder and she hushes him softly. Of course she knows Sinbad adores her. More than Doubar will ever know. It's in his eyes when he looks at her, in his hands when he touches her. How Rumina or Scratch could ever misjudge what's right in front of them she doesn't know, but she's grateful for it. Her daughter's life depends on their continued ignorance.

"Damn it, woman!" Doubar barks, and in those words, in their impatient, dismissive bite, she hears what it all comes down to for him. What it will always come down to. She is what she is—a woman, and therefore always, always an outsider. "For once, just for once, can't you put aside that gods-be-damned stubbornness and do what you're supposed to do?"

Maeve looks at Doubar, measuring his anger as she silently soothes the baby on her shoulder—ironically, exactly the sort of thing she's "supposed" to be doing. He was the crewmember most against her joining them at the beginning. Neither Firouz nor Rongar put up any fuss, and prissy little Casib scrambled to get out of her way. Mustafa, the little bantam of a sailor, got over his reservations quickly once she knocked him to the ground. But Doubar took longer. She didn't truly earn the first mate's trust until after she and Dermott saved Sinbad's life, rescuing him from Rumina's secret island of beasts. Now she wonders if all of that effort, all the good and bad times they've been through together, has been in vain. She thought she'd earned her place here, even in Doubar's eyes. Was she wrong? Has Rumina finally found a way to pull them all apart? And, most horribly, has she used their love for Sinbad to do it?

Quite possibly. Maeve forces herself to breathe evenly. She's not good at controlling her emotions, but she has a sleeping baby on her shoulder and a precious life hidden within her. For their sakes, she manages. "Keep your voice down," she says, the words leaving her lips almost without a hitch.

"No spiteful spitfire of a wench tells me what to do!" he snaps back, his words growing louder as he ignores her warning. And Maeve feels it, the heat of his anger and its direction, not at her as a person, but as a woman. Doubar happily forgot or overlooked his bias while they functioned as a team, while she was useful to him and his brother. She belongs to Dim-Dim and Doubar has great respect for the man who raised him. For Dim-Dim's sake he would probably have let her stay aboard indefinitely no matter what she did, how inept a sailor she turned out to be. His respect for her as a person, not just an offshoot of Dim-Dim, was hard-earned and came slowly, bit by bit, over time. But now she sees, as the results of all that hard work are stripped away like the charred layers of wood below, that when strife comes this is where Doubar's judgment of her will always come to rest. More even than her foreign blood, her womanhood is a mark against her that she will never be able to expunge. It is to this fault that Doubar will always return when dissatisfied with her. She'll never be just another member of the crew in his eyes. Maybe she never was.

"Why are you bothering me about this now?" she asks, holding Con's sleeping heat close. He's heavy and comforting, even if he is drooling lightly on her shoulder. Her voice doesn't waver. She learned long ago how to shatter inside without giving anything away. She's not particularly good at it, but in this case she manages. "Talia's here. Go bother her."

Doubar's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. He's no better than her at keeping his temper in check, but she has to admit that he's trying. "Sinbad won't touch her. You heard that as well as I did. You thought it was funny, but I didn't. He loves you. I'm not the sharpest spear in the bundle but even I can't deny it. He's never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Not even Leah. But it's just a game to you, isn't it? Something to laugh at in the middle of the night."

Okay, that night with a drunk Talia was legitimately funny to her—at least, until she got kicked out of her own bunk. She didn't realize how it looked from Doubar's perspective.

"Curse you, woman, my brother's soul isn't for laughing at! Why can't you do this for him? Save his soul. No one's asking you to marry him."

"Celts don't marry." It's become a rote response by now; she's sick of having to say it.

"That's fine by me! I don't want you around forever—no one does! Just until the showdown with Scratch, the whatever-you-call-it. Sinbad's a good man. He doesn't deserve to be toyed with like this. Not by Scratch and Rumina, and not by you!"

"I'm not toying with him. I never would." That much is beyond true. She's scared of what will happen after Samhain, scared of what it will mean to be tied so indelibly to a man, but she has never toyed with him and never would. This bond runs far too deep for play, even were she so inclined. She loves to bicker with him, to taunt, to flout minor orders and ruffle his feathers, but she would never, never toy with his heart. Both of them are far too damaged for that.

"You toy with him every day," Doubar accuses. "Asking special favors, choosing when you eat and when you rest—sailors don't have that luxury. A ship is like one of Firouz's inventions—each little piece working together in sync. Not willy-nilly. Not when you please. And don't give me that line about poison again. That was ages ago."

Maeve knew the poisoning excuse wouldn't last forever, but she honestly hadn't worried much about Doubar's reaction to her continued absence at meals. She was more worried about Rumina, and despite Doubar's anger she still is. Doubar may bellow and shout, but he'll never lay a hand on her. Of this she's positive. Rumina, on the other hand, is itching for an excuse, any excuse, to kill her.

"Why does it matter to you? Am I hurting anyone?"

"It's not right," he insists. "And you shouldn't expect anything from a man whose soul you could so easily save, yet you refuse."

"If you think having a baby is so easy, go right ahead," she mutters. Snarking at Doubar won't help anything but it sure makes her feel better, if only for a moment.

He glowers. "If I could, you bet I would. Anything to save my brother's soul. I wouldn't go around flaunting how much these little shrimps adore me but refuse to have one of my own."

Maeve inhales slowly, deep into her lungs. She's not flaunting at all. She's pitching in, but she's forcing the men to learn, too. And they are, whether Doubar chooses to acknowledge it or not. Rongar is pretty adorable pushing the boys on their swing, and she melts inside when she sees Sinbad holding the damn baby. She'll never admit it, but she does.

Doubar loves Sinbad more than anything else in the world, she has to remember. Far more than his own life. Sinbad is his weak spot. He always has been and he always will be. Nothing will ever break this bond, nor does she want it to. She just wants the man to comprehend subtext—to understand what's going on without being told. Rongar can. Hell, she's fairly sure even Talia knows, and Talia's been here barely longer than the boys. Why can't Doubar get it?

"Doubar," she says quietly, breathing the soft, milky smell of the baby on her shoulder, "please listen. I need you to really hear me. I'd never do anything to harm Sinbad. Can you understand that?"

"No," he growls. "I can't. If you cared about him at all you'd have a big belly by now."

Maeve isn't sure what magical realm Doubar is living in if he thinks she should be huge already. She took less than a full day to make her decision after sitting through part of that historian's insufferable speech, and she and Sinbad went to Breakwater for the _teas_ ten days later. She conceived either during the _teas_ or—improbably, but possibly—in the days leading up to it. Even so she's only about three moons along. She can see and feel the changes in her own body because she lives in it, but she has a solid two or three moons yet before she has to seriously worry about hiding. This is her first child—first and only, if she has anything to say about it—so her body will take longer to show. Keely's belly will pop before Maeve's, and she considers that a blessing. She's determined not to leave the Nomad unless she has to. Sinbad needs her. She needs him. And she's not good at sitting still. Being cooped up for moons on a tiny islet will drive her crazy.

"I have a quest, Doubar," she says as gently as she can. "People who need me."

"Sinbad needs you. That dratted historian said the bond makes the magic, didn't he? That green woman's all well and good as a backup, I guess, but he hasn't known her very long. Talia would be better, aye, but you'd be better still. And what does your quest have to do with it? I told you, this isn't a marriage. No one's asking for forever. Give us the boy when he's born and you can go questing as you please."

Maeve holds her nephew a little tighter. Part of her wishes Sinbad would come up top and stop his brother, but she knows he won't. He's settling Declan for a nap, and probably Rory, too, since she hasn't seen either boy. She's going to have to handle this herself. The hint of a somber smile touches the corners of her mouth. Doubar doesn't want her to stay, but he's more than happy to raise a nephew just as he helped raise Sinbad. Except he's not getting a nephew. He's getting a niece, and there is no way in hell Maeve would ever, ever leave her daughter with him. Especially not after today.

"Sinbad has known Talia longer," she says. The argument sounds weak even in her own ears.

"Longer, but not better. He doesn't look at her the way he looks at you."

He doesn't look at anyone the way he looks at her; Maeve knows this perfectly well. He's her_céile_ and that bond is soul-deep. She doubts he quite realizes it yet, but he will in time. She kisses Con's sleeping face and rises. She's done trying to talk sense into Doubar. They're only pulling further apart, and no good will come of that. She and Sinbad are bonded for life, just as her sailor is with his brother. Feuding with Doubar will only hurt the man they both love. "I have to put Con down to sleep."

"You can stay with us just as before, if that's what you prefer," Doubar insists. "Or leave Sinbad's son and go questing on your own. Whichever you please. You won't find a better deal than that. Nothing has to change."

And for some reason, his pleading words make her both furiously angry and hopelessly sad. "I'm not giving Sinbad a son, Doubar," she says, very slowly and very deliberately. Rongar would understand. Talia would understand. Maybe even Firouz, were he listening hard enough. "And everything already has changed." She's not sure they can ever go back. And she curses Rumina to the pits of hell for doing this to them.

* * *

Midday heat, airless and stifling, plagues the innards of the Nomad. Maeve doesn't care. Doubar is on deck, which means she wants to be anywhere else. She can't stand his mournful face, nor the way he pleads for her aid. The way he does it rubs her the wrong way, stiffens her spine. He's not begging her to be Sinbad's champion, nor even to return his brother's obvious devotion. He just wants her for a broodmare, and that she never, never will be. She refuses. She didn't join this crew looking for a husband, or to be treated as a southern woman. She just wanted to be a member of the crew. Whether she can be that and Sinbad's _chéile_ at the same time remains to be seen, but she's hardheaded and she refuses to believe it's impossible.

Right now what she is is hurting, and she knows what will soothe the ache. She heads for Sinbad's cabin, easing the door open quietly with one hand.

He's there, seated on his bunk, back propped against the wall, Duncan sprawled asleep across his lap, Rory beside him and snoring. He welcomes her with a warm grin, and there goes her heart again. It's really not fair how easily he does that.

"I was going to come check on you, but I got stuck," he says, low and smooth and impossibly sweet. "I've been meaning to ask, are they supposed to be this hot when they sleep? It's like someone lit a campfire on my leg."

"Aye." And just like that, everything's better. Not fixed. Not healed. But better. She can deal with it, push aside how unsettled her unproductive talk with Doubar has her feeling. "They turn into live coals when they sleep."

"No wonder Niall has so many. Must keep him warm on freezing northern nights." Sinbad smiles as he gently scoops Duncan off his legs, easing him to the bed. "Did you manage to eat yet?"

"No." She's not hungry. Even if she was before, talking with Doubar has left her too unsettled. Some vague worry unfolds in her heart, something without a clear purpose, something she can't name. She shivers even in the heat of the day.

He frowns. "You need to." He can't be more specific, but she understands his worry. So much is riding on the child she carries.

"I will," she says vaguely, without promising a timeline. She'll drink some more of Keely's herbal brew first and see how she feels. Moving quietly, she sits on the edge of the bunk and deposits Conall between his sleeping brothers. "You're good with them."

Sinbad shrugs off her praise. "I'm learning to tell stories. Doubar's always been better at it than me."

She doesn't want to talk about Doubar right now. "You're a fast learner."

"At most things," he agrees. His head tilts to the side as he regards her in the dim light. "What's wrong?"

He knows her well. Sometimes far too well for her liking, especially when she doesn't know how to answer him. She can't tell him about this deepening mess with Doubar—it will only cause him pain, which she refuses to do, and he can't do anything to fix the problem. Doubar's anger will hopefully dissipate once Samhain arrives or he finally learns the truth, whichever comes first. But the underlying issue will still remain, the fissure of mistrust growing between them. He doesn't trust Maeve with Sinbad's soul, and she doesn't trust Doubar with her daughter. Not after today. This is a tender topic for her and she's perhaps overly sensitive—she understands that, but she can't help how she feels.

She's also not ready to tell Sinbad she's carrying a daughter, a little girl. She's too afraid, and too protective of that tiny little life. This is knowledge she's not yet ready to share, even with him.

"I'm just tired," she says, which is both true and not. She's exhausted both physically and emotionally—they all are. But that's not what has her anxious and upset.

Sinbad looks at her for a long moment. Then, smoothly, he rises to his feet. "Come with me," he says, offering her a hand, as always, which she refuses to take, as always. "I want your opinion on something."

She follows him without question. The ship is lazily quiet during the early afternoon rest period, most everyone in their bunks or hammocks, digesting their midday meal and easing the workload on their bodies during the worst heat of the day. Sinbad walks softly down the tight hallway, producing the key to the hold and unlocking the door when he reaches it. He opens the door and waves her in before him.

"What's so important in here, then?" she asks, stepping into the darkness. She expects him to offer a candle for her to light, but he doesn't. Instead he closes the door firmly, enveloping them in utter dark.

She freezes. She opens her mouth to yell at him, but soft hands find her shoulders in the darkness. He cups her cheek gently and a moment later his mouth is on hers.

Yes. Yes, that's exactly what she wants. She lifts her mouth to him, kissing him hard and sweet. They shouldn't be in here like this, but a few minutes can't hurt, can it? The boys are deeply asleep, the rest of the ship drowsing. No one will miss them for a few minutes, and the hold is too dark for Rumina to see anything even if she is watching.

"I love you," he breathes against her mouth. "_M__o grá thú_, beautiful girl."

To say those words heal everything isn't true, but they sure fucking help. As do his hands, the way he strokes her skin, as if he's trying to see her with the pads of his fingers instead of his eyes. He threads his fingers gently through her hair and holds her in place, kissing her sweetly. It's perfect—exactly the balm she needs for this raw ache. Doubar may not trust her but Sinbad does, and Sinbad is the one she loves. The one she needs. He sucks her lower lip gently into his mouth, breathing her breath, his body hot and hard when she presses close. He smells like the sea, salt-fresh and very male and everything she wants.

"We have to be quiet," she whispers, her mouth at his ear, even as her hands reach for the end of his _hijam_.

"And quick," he agrees, even his whisper dripping reluctance. "I'd make you scream if I could, _mo chailín_. Over and over again."

When this is all over and they finally can be honest once more, she'll delight in letting him do just that. And she won't give a fuck who might be listening. For now she lets him press her back against the wall, lifting a leg to hook over his hip, opening her to his gentle hand. He strokes her sweetly, pressing light kisses along her jaw and down her throat, his hand soft but hungry as it moves between her legs.

"I want to take more care with you," he says as he strokes her, but there's no need. She's not in pain, and her lightning-fast mood swings are an asset in this particular case. She wants him desperately.

"More," she begs, tilting her pelvis and letting the tip of his fingers glide inside her. She's wet enough already, and wants to feel him deep within.

"Always." It's a vow, and she feels it down to her toes. Doubar can say whatever he wants—Maeve knows better. She knows parts of Sinbad his brother never will. Brothers are forever, but so is this. She feels it as sure and steady as her own heartbeat. His fingers withdraw and a moment later his thick length presses into her, his mouth locking smoothly with hers, capturing the pleased, melting little whine she does her best to smother. She loves his thickness, how she feels so full when he's pressed so deeply within her, the pleasant rasp of his pubic hair against her clit.

"Just once," he whispers into her mouth as his hips move, withdrawing and then pressing back in, so smooth, so deep, "I want to take you in the light, when I know that witch is watching. Make you scream for me. Melt for me. And know that she can't do a damn thing about it."

And fuck, that's hot. She can't help it. Being vindictive is not an attractive trait and it's not one she likes to foster in herself, but his suggestion is beyond sexy. Were there a safe way to do it, she'd say yes instantly.

For now, though, it will have to wait. Her daughter needs protecting. They all need protecting. So she presses kisses to Sinbad's skin and flexes her hips with his, a sweet rhythm not unlike the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull, the bob of the ship around them. This is what they are together. This is what she chooses. Rumina can't take that away. She won't let her.

When she comes it shudders through her like a wave, an oncoming rush, swift and hard, leaving her sweetly tired and her mind, for the moment, blissfully silent. That's so good. She reluctantly drops her leg when Sinbad pulls from her, missing him even before his body slips completely from hers. He's back a moment later, wrapping her in his arms, holding her tightly.

"I'd hold you all night if I could," he whispers, his lips tickling her ear. "Those little bonfires aren't the same."

"Because they wet the bed?" She holds back her laughter, but only just.

"And can't keep still. The big one kicks pretty hard." He strokes her hair, gentle fingers easing out the snarls he just put there. "What's wrong? For real this time. I know when you're lying to me. I just wish I knew why."

She tucks her head down tight against his shoulder, hugging him hard. His arms tighten around her in answer, holding her firmly, so hard she can feel him down to her bones, which is exactly what she wants. She likes to be wrapped in her heavy blanket and she likes to be held firm, restrictively firm, as if his arms could keep every bad thing in the world at bay. They can't and she knows this, but it still feels ridiculously good.

"I just...want my kid," she whispers. It's not quite what she meant to say and it doesn't necessarily make sense, but it's very true.

Sinbad touches her mouth as if trying to read her expression. "Is something wrong?"

"No." Not the way he means. She swallows hard. "I just do. I know that's not the reason we're doing this. But I can't help it." Sudden tears prick her eyes. She blinks them back, not sure where they came from.

"Hey." He catches her chin gently, easing her from her hiding place in his shoulder. He can't see her, but he kisses her mouth gently. "Of course you do. How could you not?" His hands are sweetly tender as he strokes her cheeks, brushing away damp wisps of hair. "I promise you, I'll do everything I can to protect you. Both of you. You're mine, and so is he. I won't let anyone change that."

"Promise?"

"I promise," he says easily. "Not Rumina, not Scratch. No one's going to part the three of us."

Not Doubar either, she wants to ask, but she holds her tongue. That's a step too far, and will cause questions she doesn't want to answer. Right now, his promise is enough. Let him assume he's getting a son. Let him assume all will be well once they end Scratch's hold on his soul. It doesn't matter yet. One thing at a time.

"Why the worry, _mo chailín_?" he asks gently.

She shrugs listlessly, knowing he can feel the shift of her shoulders against his chest. "Just missing people."

"Keely?"

"Dim-Dim. Dermott." She holds back a sigh and kisses his cheek before stepping away. "Come on. We shouldn't be gone so long."

He grumbles under his breath but doesn't stop her as she opens the door. Dim light pours into the hold. She squints against it and blinks.

Back in Sinbad's cabin, the boys haven't moved. She didn't really think they would, but it's unwise to disappear together for long. She feels better, though. Reassured. Sinbad's hands make her feel like nothing else ever has.

"You love them," he observes quietly as she touches Duncan softly.

"Of course." She settles on the edge of his bunk again. When this mess is over she'll get to sleep here permanently, tucked in his hard arms. She aches for it. She wouldn't have any reasonable excuse to be here at all except for the sleeping boys. They're the buffer between her and Sinbad that makes her presence in his cabin excusable. She wonders if Rumina has watched at all the past few days, wonders what the witch thinks about the new arrivals. She hasn't tried anything yet.

"I just meant…" Sinbad rubs the back of his neck as he searches for the right words, and he switches languages for good measure. "Dim-Dim said it was difficult for you to let people in. I've seen that for myself. But not always. And you love these little ones without fear."

Not without fear—that part he has wrong. But the affection outweighs the panic that something bad will befall them, that they'll be taken from her life without her consent. Love is always its own risk. The question is whether that love is worth the constant threat of a broken heart. At times in her life she believed it was not. Right now, it is.

"Dim-Dim told me once that families are like gardens, not wild meadows. We choose what goes in, what comes out. What to tend, what to pull." Sometimes with ruthless efficiency, she thinks, Dermott's face heavy in her memory. He pulled himself abruptly from her life, uprooting in a way no actual plant ever would.

"Does that make Rumina the mole digging up your garden?"

"No. Moles don't eat plants. They don't mean to cause harm. Rumina is the swarm of locusts that razes everything to the ground. The blight that rots roots from within." Even she's a little surprised at how bitter she sounds. But Rumina's taken too much from her already and plans to take more—to take Sinbad. To take Maeve's life, too, if she can, which will mean the loss of her daughter as well. And that can't happen. Not now. She never wanted to subject a child to this world but now that she has she will not let Rumina harm her. She will not let anyone.

"We'll get her," Sinbad says softly. "I promise you we will."

He's already made this promise to her many times over, both said and unsaid, and despite the overwhelming size of the task she believes him. Sinbad doesn't make promises he can't keep.

"I know she's cast a long shadow over the better part of your life," he says, shifting in his spot on the mattress. He wants to touch her; she can see it plainly in the way he moves, restless little jerks of his hands as he stops himself from reaching for her. "But if you think about it, _mo chailín_, she has to be green with envy."

"Of what?" She rubs Duncan's sleeping back and watches Sinbad doubtfully. "I'm nothing. A homeless vagrant from the edge of the world. Dirt-poor. No parents, no legacy. She calls me a peasant, but I'm not even that. Peasants are attached to a clan and a lord. They have homes. She's the daughter of one of the most feared warlocks in the world. Turok was known. She's known. What could I possibly have that she would want?"

Sinbad looks at her significantly.

"Okay, other than you. That's beside the point."

"Is it? She may not know that you're mine, but she knows I want you. That's something she'll never have. And then there's Dermott. That's two men who have chosen you over her. In different ways, aye, but even still."

"I'm prettier." It's a matter of plain fact. Rumina is beautiful, no matter how much Maeve hates to admit it. Pampered and indulged, covered in scents and cosmetics, rich silk and satin, the picture of elegance and sophistication. Maeve will never be these things, nor, if she's honest with herself, does she want to. Had she grown up with culture and refinement she could have learned, but she didn't and it feels too foreign to her now. But their relative polish can't hide the fact that, underneath all of this, Maeve is more beautiful.

"I don't think that mattered to Dermott."

"No." She smiles, but sorrow creases her soft mouth, her dark eyes dropping to the sleeping boy near her leg. "He would have preferred if I turned out plain."

Sinbad chuckles. The sound is like a caress, warm and gentle, almost as soothing as the memory of his hands in her hair, on her cheek. "He didn't like men looking at you when you were younger, did he?"

"Younger? Try ever. You remember why he left." She tightens her throat against the creeping sorrow and tells herself she won't cry. He left in a huff because she planned to take Sinbad to Breakwater for the _teas_, and he left without giving her a chance to explain. "And he actually liked you. Mostly." Her dark eyes turn inward, toward memory. "I told you before that I dressed like a boy for a time. After the fire. Keel never did. I felt safer in breeches. I don't know why. I made Dermott crop my hair short, not that he minded. But as I said, it didn't last very long."

"Do me a favor, firebrand? Don't ever cut that hair again."

Her eyes flit from his and she fights the smile that wants to break through. "I won't."

"Talia wasn't wrong to doubt you. There's no way you could have passed for a boy for long," he says gently.

She grins with shameless impudence. "Couldn't pass for a man now."

"Ah, no. You wouldn't fool a blind man at midnight. Keely could probably pass for a boy if she tried, but not you. I'm sorry, _mo chailín_."

"Don't be. I'm not upset about it." It's just a fact. She could bind her breasts and cut her hair but she can't really do anything about the shape of her body, the curve of her hips, nor her face. Keely probably could disguise herself well enough to be overlooked if she wanted to, but Maeve will never be mistaken for anything but what she is.

"You're all woman, and far more beautiful than Rumina could ever hope to be. But I don't think that's why she wants to kill you."

"It would be enough. She's killed for less."

"I don't doubt it. But listen. You have things she never will. If Dim-Dim says families are like gardens, yours is overflowing. And in bloom. You have your family at Breakwater—chosen siblings and all those nieces and nephews. Everyone on the Nomad. That ruling council who gave Breakwater to you, who believe in you. Dim-Dim and Cairpra. The people you've helped on our voyages. What do you think Rumina has in her garden?"

"Enough monkshood to poison me, apparently," Maeve grumbles, but she understands what he's trying to say. "Whatever Turok was, you pulled him out by the roots."

"And he may have been the only other person she had." Sinbad rubs idly at his shirt, the spot where Scratch's brand lies heavy on his skin. "I don't regret killing him. It needed to be done. But this is the consequence of my action."

Maeve scowls. "I don't like that. That mark is not your fault."

He shrugs. "I guess it depends on your point of view. And Rumina's. Would she have followed us, followed me, if she wasn't looking for revenge?"

Maeve presses her lips together. This is not a path of inquiry she wants to tread. Rumina wants him, and wants him submissive to her. Does the reason matter anymore? Maeve doesn't think so. The minute Rumina sold Sinbad's soul—a soul Maeve is still dubious about her right to in the first place—the reasons ceased to matter. Trying to enslave or kill him is one thing. Subjecting his soul to everlasting servitude and torment is something else entirely.

"I won't let Scratch take you. Won't let either of them." She looks at the sleeping boys, the baby at rest where her own daughter will soon sleep, safe under her watchful eye.

"I know." His eyes are visibly blue, even in the dim light. "You're stronger than her. Stronger than both of them, when you believe in yourself."

Does she believe in herself? Ordinarily she's not sure. But in this circumstance, she does. Too much is riding on her, too many people she can't let down. She can't afford to lose.


	27. Chapter 27

_Fun history fact: cinching the waist has been fashionable for both men and women on and off throughout most periods of history and most cultures. Both Maeve and Doubar wear what I loosely term cinchers. BUT the metal-ringed eyelet (grommet) wasn't invented until the 1800's, which meant that, until then, really tight lacing was impossible. Before then, if you look at paintings of historical clothing, people achieved weird shapes by building out with stiff fabrics and stuffing their garments, but not by actually constricting the shape of their bodies drastically, because they couldn't. The Victorians and Edwardians did, because they suddenly could. Maeve's waist cincher on the show has metal eyelets/grommets, which costumers' blogs tell me means it likely came from a low-cost general costume warehouse and was not bespoke. Whether this is specifically true for her costume I do not know, obviously, but it seems accurate._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

When the Nomad finally sets sail, her cabins restored to the best of the crew's ability, Maeve feels lighter and happier than she has in a long time. Talia may accuse her of not being a sailor at heart, but when the Nomad's sails pull taut and the canvas snaps crisply in the wind, she feels an answering untethering of her soul, a lifting of her spirits that not even Doubar's sulk and Talia's snark can suppress. She lifts Duncan so he can see over the lip of the bow, watching as the ship slices cleanly through the water.

Sinbad, she has learned, is an indifferent carpenter, knowledgeable in theory and able to produce solid work but not a true craftsman at heart. Neither is Doubar. Firouz and Rongar and Maeve herself are far better suited to the more finicky woodworking tasks, their patient and dexterous hands doing what their more big-picture-oriented crewmates cannot. Sinbad knows far more than she would ever claim to about a shipwright's craft, and she suspects Firouz knows even more, but when it comes to the fussy work of measuring and joining, particularly something slow and time-consuming like dovetails, he's better off letting her handle it. She's realized that she likes discovering these things about him, learning that he's not always perfect at everything he does. Like his crooked teeth, his imperfections somehow endear him to her more.

"Me next," Rory insists, tugging on her sleeve. "I want to see, too."

"Easy, kid. Don't pull on her like that." Sinbad strides up behind them and hoists the bigger boy onto his shoulders. "She's delicate."

"I am not." Maeve gives him a disgusted look. Nothing about her is fragile, except maybe her good mood, which he's going to shatter if he's not careful.

"Auntie's strong," Duncan agrees from his perch on her hip.

"Very strong, and tough, too." She hugs him tight as he cranes his little head over the water. He's as enchanted by the sparkle on the sea, the swift movement of the ship, as she is. For now, anyway. His two-year-old attention span won't be caught for long.

"What's that?" Rory points as a dark shape appears in the water, then another.

"Fish!" Duncan squeals.

"Close—dolphins. They like to ride the bow wave. See?" Sinbad leans out over the railing and Maeve wants to snap at him to be careful, but she holds her tongue. His strong hands are pinning Rory's legs to his shoulders; he won't let him fall.

A pod of at least six of the creatures appear, as they often do in these waters, riding the wave the ship makes as it slices cleanly through the water.

"Fish!" Duncan insists again, and Maeve doesn't bother to correct him. Firouz says dolphins aren't fish, strictly speaking, but neither she nor the toddler really care. She breathes the clean salt wind and watches Duncan's dark eyes sparkle as he stares at the playful creatures below. He has two fingers in his mouth and he laughs around them. "Big fish."

"Very big," she agrees. "Bigger than you." She tickles his belly lightly just to hear that laugh again. "Bigger than Rory."

"Bigger than auntie?"

"Probably."

"Bigger than captain?"

"Maybe. Captain's pretty big."

Beside her, Sinbad snorts lightly. She's not entirely sure why the boys have decided to call Sinbad by his title, but it's pretty adorable and she's not complaining even though she doubts they have any idea what a captain actually is. They comprehend that he's at least notionally in charge, though that doesn't stop them from ignoring his orders, particularly near bedtime. Sinbad often growls that they take after their aunt in that regard as he chases one or both of them down to put back in his bunk, to which she responds that Niall manages with five so Sinbad ought to be able to handle two and a half.

One of the dolphins propels itself from the water, leaping in a lovely arc that makes both boys squeal. Unwillingly, Maeve is reminded of Dermott's mischievous side, how he would at times tease the dolphins, seals, and smaller whales they encountered, dive-bombing them in playful feints or skimming the surface of the water, so close they nearly touched despite being creatures of two separate elements: sky and sea. The memory of happier times is painful now and she pushes it down, away from the surface of her mind. She wishes she could banish her worry for her brother just as easily. Wherever he is, she just hopes he's still angry with her and therefore choosing to keep away. It's better than believing something awful has happened to him.

"AH, EXCUSE ME?" Firouz calls, emerging onto the deck. "I BELIEVE I WAS MISTAKENLY LEFT ALONE WITH THE INFANT? NOT THAT I TERRIBLY MIND, GENERALLY SPEAKING, BUT HE WAS WET, SO NOW THE MAPS ARE WET. I CHANGED HIM BUT HE'S STILL NOT HAPPY." Conall's fussy noises accompany Firouz's bellow.

"I think that's your cue, captain."

"My hands are full."

"So are mine."

He makes a face at her. "Why does Niall have so many boys, again? One, I understand. And a brother to keep him company. But any more than that and suddenly you're outnumbered."

She chuckles and squeezes Duncan lightly before setting him on the deck. He whines and stamps his bare little foot.

"Easy. Let's get your brother down and you can go pester Talia for a while." She lifts Rory from Sinbad's shoulders.

"Don't reach like that. I can put him down," her captain protests.

"Knock it off. I'm not going to break, and you need to shut your mouth." She drops a kiss in Rory's curly hair and sets him on his feet. "Go on. Go annoy Talia. You have permission."

The boys scuttle for the door willingly, Rory jostling his smaller brother for position. Duncan just manages not to kneecap Firouz as he hurtles below.

"MAEVE? DOUBAR? SOMEONE? I HAVE SEVERAL CHARTS THAT NOW NEED TO BE HUNG TO DRY."

"Add them to the laundry." She takes the fussing baby from Firouz and props him gently against her shoulder. "What's the matter, little man? Don't you like sailing?"

"MAYBE IT DOESN'T AGREE WITH HIS STOMACH."

"As much as everyone's constantly picking him up and bouncing him around, he's got to have a rock-solid constitution by now." Maeve wishes she had the same. She glances cautiously at Doubar manning the tiller, but he's too far away to make a rude comment. Or, if he does, she's too far away to hear it.

"He's just cranky because he wants to hang out with his favorite captain." Sinbad takes Con from her, settling him against his chest. "Come on, kid. Let's teach you how to steer."

"I'M NOT SURE AN INFANT HAS THE REQUISITE MANUAL DEXTERITY YET, NOT TO MENTION ATTENTION—"

"He was teasing, Firouz." She pats the inventor's shoulder lightly as Sinbad disappears up the aft steps, toward Doubar and the tiller. Part of her would like to tag along, especially considering the gooey way her insides melt when Sinbad holds the damn kid, but nothing is worth deliberately putting herself in Doubar's path right now. He's angrier than he was before their disastrous talk—angry enough that even Firouz has commented on the change. Not for the first time, she wonders if it really would be better to suck it up, apologize to Keely, and retreat to Breakwater until Samhain. It would be the wiser choice, she knows, but All Souls Night is a solid half a year away and she just can't make herself do it. She can't be away from Sinbad for so long, away from her home, not knowing day to day whether he and the rest of the crew are safe. They've come to count on her magic more and more as her skill and their trust in it grows, and she's unwilling to leave them at Rumina's mercy without any magical protection. She also isn't sure she can physically stay still for so long, cooped up on a tiny islet with no outlet for her wandering spirit. Tending the garden and livestock, minding the children and working in the library is all well and good for her siblings, but she's never really known a sedentary life and she doesn't want one. It's too foreign. She needs to be able to chase the wind. Then there's this bond to consider. Sinbad is her _céile_, and she doesn't know what being so far apart for so long might do to them because of it.

"I WAS WORKING ON MY DESIGNS EARLIER TODAY," Firouz says. "I HAVE COUNTLESS IDEAS FOR A BETTER METHOD OF HAND-FEEDING AN INFANT, BUT I'M AT A LOSS AS TO HOW TO PRACTICALLY IMPLEMENT ANY OF THEM."

"How so?" She angles herself so he can watch her mouth move as she speaks, amused at how seriously he's taking this question. Babies have sucked rags since time immemorial, as far as she knows, and while it's no real substitute for a living mother, it keeps them alive. Some of them. Sometimes.

"I LACK A PLIANT, MOLD-ABLE, WATERPROOF MATERIAL AN INFANT MIGHT WILLINGLY SUCKLE, CAPABLE OF RELEASING MILK ON DEMAND."

"So in other words, you lack breasts?" Her snort turns into true laughter when the inventor turns red. "Sorry, my friend, but this may be one instance where you can't improve on nature."

As he sputters and stammers, attempting to reframe his statement, the door opens. Duncan emerges on all fours, climbing to his feet once he clears the stairs. Rory follows close on his heels. The two-year-old has wrapped himself in sheer, thin red silk trimmed with elaborate gold embroidery, hitching what's probably a long woman's skirt up to his knees as he steps carefully to avoid tripping. His brother is likewise adorned in rich fabric, violet watered silk of a heavier weave, and he kilts it high up his legs as he steps clear of the stairs, nearly tripping and falling on his face.

"What in blazes is going on?" Doubar demands, shoving the tiller into Sinbad's grasp and stumping forward.

Talia's voice emerges from below, deeply affronted. "Where did you get all this?" The door shoves open again and she climbs onto the deck. "All this time all these riches have been just sitting in that chest and I never knew?"

Maeve's hand falls to her belt as anger fills her. Yes, the key to her trunk is there, right where it belongs. "You picked the lock! You little crook!"

Talia points to herself. "Pirate," she says firmly. Her arms are full of rich fabrics in all the colors of the rainbow. "Come on, where'd you get it all? You don't wear it. Are you planning to...what? Keep it locked away forever? Turn it all into blankets for babies to piss on?"

"It's none of your business!"

"Never mind that!" Doubar bellows. "Why are the boys traipsing around in _gowns_?"

"They wanted to play," Talia says mildly. "Where's the harm? Really, Doubar. You need to lighten up. They're just babies."

"They are not! Turning a robe into a blanket for the baby is one thing, but those are grown boys who have no business flouncing around in skirts!"

Maeve steps firmly between the first mate and her nephews. "Leave them alone." In his current mood he may well never forgive her for challenging him, but she's not going to let him spoil the boys' fun for no reason. They're her nephews, not his, and she's willing to bet that Sinbad will back her, not Doubar, if appealed to. Con adores the silk she cut down and hemmed for his blanket; he rubs it in his fingers as he slips off to sleep. There's no reason his brothers shouldn't feel the same.

"Hey, what about this?" Talia holds up a glass bottle of amber liquid. "Some sort of medicine or potion? What's it for? Smells pretty potent. Or toxic. Or both."

Shit. She found the whiskey. Maeve scowls and holds her tongue, though she guesses it was only a matter of time before this happened. She had some stored away in her trunk and she knows Sinbad has some lying around, too. Putting things under lock is clearly no barrier to Talia, so she should have expected this. But she doesn't have to tell her what it is. "Give me that," she snaps, reaching not for the bottle, but for the silver bracelet set with an opal, currently adorning Talia's forearm. She pulls it off and glares. "That's from home and it's off limits."

"Easy, hothead. Keep the silver. You didn't answer my question about the clothes. Or this." She shakes the bottle.

"It's none of your business," Maeve says, though that's never stopped Talia before.

"Pirate, remember? Come on, is it some sort of magic potion? Smells too vile to be a love potion. Does it kill with a single drop or something like that?" Her hazel eyes gleam as she considers the possibility.

Rory pokes his head around Maeve's leg. "It's just whiskey," he says, and wrinkles his nose. "Yuck."

"Thanks, kid," Maeve mutters. She was more than happy to let Talia think it was some sort of dire potion—one she shouldn't sample.

"Welcome," he says, gazing up at her with an adoring look, sarcasm clearly lost on him. She rubs his hair and gives up.

"Wait, what did you say? Whiskey? Like, for real? It's not just a myth?" Talia stares at the bottle in her hand, possibly more intrigued than when she thought it was poison.

"I knew you had all this frippery aboard," Doubar says, his eyes narrowing. "I didn't know you had whiskey."

"Yeah, Sinbad has some, too," Talia says, confirming that it's not just Maeve's possessions she's picked through.

"Where did you get whiskey?" Doubar demands as Sinbad comes down the steps, having secured the tiller. "You didn't think to share, even with your brother?" Maeve can't tell if he's more affronted about this or about the boys drowning in silk.

"It was a gift," Sinbad says. "I honestly forgot I had it." He watches Maeve cautiously, and she knows he's trying to gauge just how angry she is, whether he needs to step in and break this up. She considers. It irks her that Talia picked the lock on her chest and went through her things, but she should have known it was likely to happen. She's more upset at Doubar for fuming at the boys when they did nothing wrong.

"If you forgot you had it, it can't have meant very much to you. I think that means we can crack it open," Talia says.

Sinbad's sea-bright eyes hold the question—he's letting Maeve decide. She shrugs minutely; it doesn't matter to her. She's used the bottle tucked away in her trunk to wash wounds more than she has to get drunk, and she could have a steady supply of whiskey from home if she wanted it. If Talia wants to drink herself sick, let her. It might teach her to have a touch more respect next time.

"Later," Sinbad says finally. "You're still on duty. Put the clothes back."

"But I don't have any answers yet," Talia protests. "What's a homeless barbarian doing with a king's ransom in silk?"

"A queen's ransom," Doubar says, "and get those things off those boys now."

"It was a whole kingdom's ransom, if you recall," Maeve snaps, "and they can play if they want, they're not hurting anyone."

"I already heard the story about the clothes," Rory says, tugging at her again. "I want to hear about Étaín. You promised ages ago."

"You're an odd one, always asking for Étaín," she says, ignoring Doubar and folding herself willingly to the deck. Rory crawls into her lap and Duncan tumbles to his knees next to her, tripping over his long skirt. Talia visibly winces, waiting for the thin silk to tear.

"I love Étaín," Rory says, stretching his little legs out. Like his baby brother, he takes a fold of silk between his fingers and begins to rub. Something about the soft whisper of silk on silk must be soothing to them; Maeve herself prefers cotton, which is much harder to find and almost as expensive. She slips her arms around Rory as he settles more comfortably on her lap. "Étaín's like Mia," the boy continues.

"How is she like Mia?"

"She can fly."

"Enough of this," Doubar snaps. "Tell them fairy stories if you must, but take off the gowns."

"No," she says firmly.

"Let them be, Doubar," Sinbad says, holding Con against his shoulder. "They're her nephews, and under my care. She doesn't mind and I don't see the harm, so that's the end of it. Talia, I said to put the rest of it back, and don't go snooping again."

"Snooping? I'm a pirate, not a detective," she mutters as she turns to head below.

"She's been babying those boys since they arrived, but this is beyond babying," Doubar says, his anger not yet spent. His face burns vividly red. "Cutting a blanket for the baby is one thing, but those are little boys, not girls!"

"And they're both so small it doesn't matter. Let them play. They're too young to be as grown-up as you'd like."

Maeve lowers her head and hides a satisfied smile in Rory's curls. She knew Sinbad would back her, but it feels good to hear him actually agree, as well. Her nephews will have to learn to be men, as all boys do, but not yet. They can stay sweet for a while. It won't hurt them.

"No matter what Doubar says, Étaín wasn't a fairy," Maeve says, "and so her story isn't a fairy story."

"But isn't Midir _sìthiche_?" Rory asks.

"No. Midir is something else. _S__ìthichean_ are no more and no less mortal than humans. Midir is...different. A demigod, I think people here in the south would say. One of the _Tuatha dé Danann_."

"His da was the Dagda."

"Aye. And he and the others like him live forever, or practically so, in a realm apart from ours. Passage between can only occur through certain doorways."

"Under the hills," Rory says.

"Under the hills," she agrees. "But only certain, special hills. Not every mountain is a doorway."

Doubar groans. "Spare me this twaddle," he spits, and he stomps back up to the tiller.

"Why is Doubar mad?" Rory asks as Duncan settles from his knees to his seat, pressing close to Maeve's side like a puppy seeking attention. "Did we do something wrong?"

"No," she says firmly as Sinbad sits on a crate, Con held gently against his shoulder. "Doubar is angry a lot right now, but it's grown-up business. I promise it has nothing to do with you."

Rory sighs, but he rubs the silk between his fingers and desists. He trusts her, and Maeve does her best not to abuse that faith. She touches him gently, wrapping him in her arms. He's a good kid, softer and gentler than his brothers, and she never wants him to feel inadequate because of that. He doesn't need to be as loud as Declan or as stubborn as baby Conall. He's just fine as he is.

"What about Étaín?" he says, tipping his head up to watch her with those eyes that look so much like his father's. Once again she reflects that all the children of Breakwater take after their fathers, not their mothers. She hopes hers is the same. Sinbad is a beautiful man, and she'd love a daughter with his cheekbones, those striking blue eyes. That sea-bright color is so rare among his people—a gift from his mother, he claims, and her mother before that, who came from Gaul. Maeve thanks the spirit of his grandmother for that Gallic blue, and hopes it will manifest in at least one more generation.

"Étaín," Rory says again, tugging gently at her sleeve.

"Étaín was human," she says, bringing her attention back to the boy in her lap, "at least at first."

"And at last?"

"You know, I'm not really sure. She was so changed by her journeys, and in the end she went to live in Midir's kingdom, where no one ever dies. I don't know what that makes her."

"But she's not the only human who has ever crossed over."

"Not by far. Many people have, and it's said they still do from time to time." The watered silk in her arms is warm with Rory's body heat, slippery-smooth.

"So are they all still human, or are they something different now?"

"I really don't know. I don't think anyone has ever asked in quite that way." She tickles his ear lightly. "You're pretty smart."

His grin shows the perfect little pearls of his baby teeth. "Tell me about Étaín."

Smiling, she relents. This is not a favorite legend of hers and never was, even when she was a child. She much preferred stories of adventure and battle to tales of romance and tragedy, but in this she and Rory are unalike. "Like so many stories of beautiful women, this one begins when a man spied her. Étaín was bathing in the moonlight in a silver fountain, it's said, when Midir, a powerful king of the _Tuatha dé Danann_, discovered and fell in love with her."

Rory relaxes into her body at the start of the familiar story. "Tell me what she looked like."

"She was the most beautiful Celt to ever live, according to Midir, who I guess would know. She had skin white as winter snow, eyes blue as the summer sky, and hair as bright as flame."

"Like you," Rory says, tugging on a copper curl.

Maeve laughs. "I hope Étaín was prettier than me. Otherwise I might be in trouble." One thing is clear from the legends she's learned from many cultures: beauty is a burden as much as a gift, and one that often brings tragedy with it. "She was said to be as delicate as sea foam. Personally, I wouldn't like that."

"Midir did. Midir loved her," Rory says, playing the silk between his fingers.

"He did. And she loved him, too. But there was a problem." Maeve pauses as Duncan shifts restlessly against her. She'll lose his attention in another moment. "Her father, Ailill, king of the Ulaid, in the northeast of Eire. He jealously guarded his only daughter, and when he learned that she meant to go away with a king of the _Tuatha dé Danann_, he imprisoned her in his tower and refused to let her leave."

"So Midir went for help," Rory says, smiling.

"He did. He appealed to his half-brother, Aengus, a son of the Dagda and a mortal woman, who ruled a mortal kingdom. Midir had fostered Aengus when he was a boy, and they were very close."

"Like you and Dermott," Rory says.

Any mention of her brother feels like a violent constriction of her heart, like someone takes it in his hand and squeezes tight, a pain that radiates through her whole body and makes it difficult to breathe. But Rory doesn't know, and doesn't mean to wound. "Like me and Dermott," she says, and while she feels Sinbad's sharp gaze watching her intently, the boys seem to notice nothing. She swallows, her throat suddenly dry, and wishes for a mug of Keely's minty brew or water and lime juice sweetened with honey. She and the boys have been drinking the gifted limes the past few days, and the taste and smell are a welcome relief to her belly.

"And Aengus helped Midir, like you help Dermott," Rory says happily.

Out of the corner of her eye Maeve sees Sinbad's chest rise as he draws breath, ready to stop the boy's thoughtless chatter, but she shakes her head at him. Rory doesn't mean to hurt her, and she'd rather not try to explain to a four-year-old child exactly why he shouldn't mention the hawk he's only seen a handful of times, the hawk he trusts to be his uncle because all the adults around him say so.

"Aengus helped Midir because brothers help brothers," she says, shifting the narrative away from Dermott. "That's what they do." She licks her thumb and rubs a smudge of dirt off the boy's cheek. "He went to Étaín's father and pled for her release. He was half mortal, remember, and ruled a mortal kingdom, and so the king Ailill didn't know he was Midir's brother. He demanded Aengus clear twelve vast stretches of marsh and woodland, turning the wasteland into twelve great plains, grazing land for Ailill's stock. No man could do such a feat in a whole lifetime, but with the secret help of Midir and their father, the Dagda, Aengus completed the task in a single day."

"Hang on," Sinbad interrupts. "If he did all that in one day, wouldn't the bad king figure out he was dealing with mystical beings, like he was trying to avoid in the first place?"

"Hush," she says, grinning at him. "It's a story. It's not supposed to make sense."

"But—"

"Shh," Rory says, putting a little finger against his lips. "Étaín."

Sinbad hushes, but the corners of his mouth struggle not to smile.

"When Aengus returned to Ailill, the king set him another task. This time he commanded that Aengus make twelve rivers flow through the productive land he just created, deep and clear, to bring water for crops and boats to connect to the sea. Once more, with the help of Midir and the Dagda, he completed this task in a single day."

"And gave himself away by doing so," Sinbad mutters.

"Quiet," Rory insists.

Duncan, bored with this tale, rises to his feet and turns to the swing. He rests his belly over the plank of wood and pushes off with his bare feet, swinging himself upside down.

"Don't you have a ship to sail?" Maeve asks Sinbad pointedly as Rory adjusts himself in her lap. "Something more useful to do than literary criticism?"

"Nah," Sinbad says. "I put Doubar at the tiller to keep you from fighting and the sails won't need adjusting until the wind changes. I'm all yours." He grins.

"Then hush or go away." She hugs Rory and continues. "Thirdly, Ailill demanded a ransom in order to free his daughter Étaín: her weight in gold and her weight in silver. Aengus agreed to this, but the coin he paid, provided by Midir, was _ór__sídhe_ and disappeared the next morning."

"Ah, hold on. I have another question. I know you called it a ransom, but this sounds an awful lot like buying a bride to me, and I thought you said your people don't do that."

Maeve rolls her eyes. "We don't. Well, mostly. That's changing as the pope's god gains ground."

"I'm just saying, that sounds basically like what the caliph did ages ago when he was ready to take his first wife. Not the inhuman feats of strength, but the ungodly bride-price."

Maeve laughs as Rory huffs impatiently. "I didn't say Celts were any better than your people, just different. In some ways we're worse."

"I'm a little afraid to ask how."

"Kings rule, but the hereditary right passes through the female line. In some cases, the first man to get a princess with child becomes the king's heir. You can imagine how messy that becomes."

Sinbad's face pales. "On both sides," he says. "Being a Celt princess sounds like a rotten deal, but from the few Celt women I've known, and speaking from a man's perspective, I wouldn't want to try to woo a hostile girl while she's got a sword trained on me."

"That's because you're an intelligent man." She always knew he was smart.

"It still sounds an awful lot like the purchase of a bride to me," Sinbad grumbles. "The story, I mean. Even if he does use the northern equivalent of alchemist's gold."

"Be quiet. Rory likes it."

The boy in her lap nods. "Midir loves her. He'd do anything for her." His big brown eyes blink up at his aunt sweetly.

"And he got her, at least for a little while. After Aengus paid the ransom, her father was forced to free her. She went with Aengus willingly, with the promise that he would reunite her with Midir."

"And he did, and she loved him," Rory says dreamily.

"She did, and they stayed a year with Aengus at his court, and everyone was happy. But then Midir decided it was time to return to his own kingdom, through the door under the hill. I lived above his hill for a time when I was small—did you know that? His hill was called Brí Leith."

"Did you really?" Rory's eyes gleam. "Did you see the doorway? Did you go through?"

"No," she says, petting his curls. Soon he'll be too big and won't let her play with his soft hair or cuddle him anymore, so she indulges while she can. "I never saw any sign of it, but that's what the legends say. Anyway, Aengus warned him to beware, because the witch Fúamnach, who had always wanted to be Midir's queen, would be jealous that he brought back a beautiful human girl to reign beside him."

"Suddenly I don't like where this story is going," Sinbad mutters. "A jealous witch and a beautiful redhead? Hits too close to home."

Maeve ignores him. She should tell him to shut his mouth, but she can't quite make herself do it. She understands exactly how he feels. "Midir took the warning from his brother to heart and swore that he would never leave his love alone where the witch could reach her, but he did return with Étaín to his realm despite the danger. They lived happily together for a while—how long isn't clear, because time runs differently in the other realm. Midir guarded Étaín faithfully day and night, and there was no trouble. But then one day he had to attend the Dagda on business, and he left Étaín alone. Fúamnach seized the opportunity to strike with her magic, turning Étaín from a beautiful girl into a pool of water. The heat of the hearthfire turned the water to steam, which coalesced into a caterpillar, and the caterpillar, as they do, cocooned itself and transformed into a butterfly."

"The most beautiful butterfly," Rory says. "Tell me what she looked like."

"She was as violet as your silk, and she sparkled like diamonds. Her wings were as big as your head, and when they fluttered they made the softest, most beautiful music, like the sweetest lullaby. When Midir returned home and discovered her he mourned the loss of Étaín, for he could not break the spell and restore her true form. But he knew the butterfly was her, and while she remained with him he swore he would love no other. The witch fumed because her spell had not granted her what she wanted. Midir loved the butterfly, and she him, for long years. She would alight on his brow when he lay down to sleep and spread her wings like a protective veil over his face. The wind of her passing brought the smell of lush summer flowers, and when she shook dew from her wings it healed whomever it touched. She stood guard over Midir, warning him when anyone with evil in their hearts approached, and he in turn guarded the fragile creature who watched over him."

"But the witch was angry," Rory says, nodding.

"She was. She conjured a fierce wind to blow the butterfly from Midir's side, banishing her to the human lands once more. For seven years the wind blew her about, never letting her alight anywhere, until finally it blew her into Aengus's mortal kingdom. Aengus, recognizing Étaín for who she truly was, struggled with what to do. He decided not to return her directly to Midir despite his half-brother's despair, because he feared for Étaín's safety. He knew the witch would not stop attempting to destroy her. So he built a protected, airy little home for the butterfly out of pure crystal, and filled it full of sweet plants and flowers, and always set it just so the sun could shine in and warm her. And so after seven years of being blown about, Étaín was finally able to rest."

"But not for long," Rory says.

"I'm liking this story less and less," Sinbad mutters, bouncing Con gently. "Whatever happened to a simple 'happily ever after'?"

Maeve laughs. "Celts don't do that."

"What about Tam Lin? Doesn't that one have a happy ending?"

"Depends. I imagine the woman—her name is Janet, by the way, no matter what al Alawy says—expected Tam Lin to remain true to her, possibly even become her _céile_, after all she'd done for him. But depending on how you choose to interpret his relationship with the evil queen, he may not have been the sort of man she wanted him to be."

Sinbad stares at her. His eyes blink slowly, and she wonders what's going on in that head of his. He's reading too much into her words, she knows he is. "I was right," he says flatly. "I don't like Celt stories."

"Étaín," Rory insists, tugging at Maeve's sleeve.

"Yes. Étaín. She eventually grew strong again, but even so she yearned for Midir. Finally Aengus agreed to fetch him, but when he did, he left Étaín alone and vulnerable. The witch struck again, sending her wind to blow the butterfly away. She was unable to rest for another seven years, never alighting on any twig or stem, until, exhausted unto death, she fell into a golden cup held by the queen of Ulster, and was accidentally swallowed by her. The queen grew big with child and gave birth to Étaín a thousand years after her first birth."

"She was human again," Rory says happily.

"I suppose," Maeve agrees. "Or, at least, not a butterfly anymore. There are many stories from across the world of people rising from the dead, but I don't know of any other human to have been born twice without dying in between."

"That may be a puzzle for Firouz to chew on," Sinbad says, letting Con suck on his finger. "Now that she's human again—or close enough—does she finally reunite with her true love?"

Maeve snorts. "Celt, remember? That would be far too easy."

His expression is unreadable. "Figures."

"The reborn Étaín had no memory of her past lives, either as Midir's love or as a butterfly, and she grew up blessedly unaware of it all. She agreed to join with Eochaid, the high king of Eire, in alliance, for the lesser kings refused to bow to him until he had a queen."

"But she didn't love him," Rory says.

"She didn't. It was a political alliance for the good of the realm, as many rulers make." Maeve doubts Rory understands this, but it really doesn't matter. He's listening quietly, Con is playing with Sinbad's fingers and not fussing, and Duncan is swinging himself upside down, red in the face but happy. "The story doesn't say how Midir discovered her in her reborn form, but he did, and so as to ensure that the evil witch could never harm her again, he and Aengus hunted and killed her. He kept her head as proof that no more harm would ever come to Étaín."

"Good," Rory says, oblivious to how grisly this detail actually is. Maeve tickles his ear and doesn't reprimand him. He'll learn all too soon.

"The high king, Eochaid, had a brother, Ánguba, who fell sick with love of Étaín. The healer summoned to attend him said he ailed with the two slayers of men that no physician can heal: love and jealousy. But Ánguba, who loved his brother, refused to admit the truth, preferring to surrender his life rather than disrespect his brother or Étaín, despite knowing Eochaid did not love her."

Sinbad glances at her, irritation in his bright eyes. "Can't any man in this story just find a different woman? Do they all have to pine away after the same one?"

Maeve grins. "Not much of a story if everyone pairs off evenly and sets to work producing another generation with no squabbling. Celts don't do that. No culture in the world does that, and if they do, they don't tell stories about it."

"Étaín," Rory insists.

"Right. The high king went to travel his lands, as the high king always does in summer, leaving Étaín to nurse his dying brother. Under her care he regained some of his health, but still would not admit, even to her, the reason for his illness. To do so under his brother's roof, he said, would be a sin. So Étaín agreed to meet him at night outside the walls of the keep, high on top of a nearby hill."

"A doorway hill," Rory says, beaming.

"Aye. She went, expecting to meet the king's brother and hear the reason for his illness. And she did meet a man in the dark on the hillside, a man wearing Ánguba's face, but, though she didn't remember her time among the _Tuatha dé Danan__n_, she did not believe the man was actually the king's brother. She returned to the keep to find Ánguba lost in sorcerous sleep, so she knew she was correct. She returned to the darkness, and the strange man was still there. He cast off the cloak of sorcery and revealed himself to be Midir, and told her all about her past lives, and his continuing love for her. He kissed her fingertip, and when his lips touched her skin her memory returned, and she knew that everything he said was true."

"But she didn't run away with him," Rory says.

"No. She made a vow to Eochaid, the high king, to be his queen and rule at his side. She was unwilling to sully both her honor and her king's, though she loved Midir. He cajoled and enticed her, promising her riches beyond measure, happiness without end, if she would only journey under the hill with him. She said if he would cure Ánguba's illness, and Eochaid was willing to release her, she would go with him. Nothing else would sway her. The _Tuatha dé Danan__n_ sometimes grant boons to humans, if the cause strikes their fancy and the messenger asks nicely enough, and Midir willingly cured the high king's brother of his love-sickness. Getting Eochaid to release Étaín, however, was much harder."

"Two kings fighting over one girl? That sounds like war to me," Sinbad says. "Ow!" He pulls his finger from Con's mouth. "This kid may not have any teeth, but his jaw's as strong as Doubar's."

Maeve laughs. "Bet you're glad you can't nurse him."

"Very glad." He looks a little pale considering it.

"Midir approached Eochaid, but knew the man would never willingly give Étaín up. So, instead of telling him the truth of who he was, he invited the king to play a game of chess for a wager: fifty high-blooded warhorses and the jeweled tack to to go with them, all black as night. Eochaid agreed, and won. Midir returned the next day with the horses, willingly paid his debt, and challenged the king again. This time the wager was fifty gold-hilted swords. Eochaid won. Midir returned the next day with the swords, paid his debt, and challenged again. This time the wager was fifty red cows, fifty grey boars, and fifty white rams. Eochaid won, and getting a little full of himself, joked that he should ask for fifty beautiful girls next. Midir accepted swiftly, but said that if he won, he would only ask for one woman in return: Eochaid's queen.

That night, Eochaid called on a sorcerer for counsel, and the sorcerer warned him that the mysterious man against whom he wagered must be one of the _Tuatha dé Danan__n_, a dangerous and powerful being. They are not evil—they can even be kind when they choose. Midir did heal Eochaid's brother at Étaín's request, after all. But they are capable of immense cruelty as well, and perhaps even greater indifference. Because they live such long lives, they aren't like us. They don't think like us. They don't feel like us. We—humans and _sìthichean_—must seem like beetles or mice to them. We live so fast and die so soon. The sorcerer warned Eochaid to be very cautious. He told him not to give insult, but not to give quarter, either. When Midir came to play their final game of chess and won swiftly, Eochaid knew those earlier games were all for show. His opponent had lost on purpose to lull him. And now he had no choice, because he had been neatly maneuvered into a corner—Midir called for Étaín and she came willingly, though she scolded him for how he had manipulated the king. Eochaid had to let her go, but he was murderously angry about it. He called for his guards, but Midir put his arms around Étaín, lifted her from the floor, and transformed them both into white swans. They flew through the smoke-hole in the roof and away to the doorway under the hill, where they returned to Midir's land once more."

"Good," Rory says. "That's all." He rises, satisfied, and kisses Maeve's cheek before joining his brother on their swing.

"That's not all, actually," she says softly, watching the boys jostle each other for space on the swing. "It's just the ending he wants, so he always stops it there, before it gets dark again."

"Smart kid." Sinbad rises. There's something in his eyes, something that surprises her. He's restless—upset. She has no idea why, and she does not like admitting to this ignorance. She knows Sinbad. Knows him to the bone. But she has no idea why his body moves like that, unable to keep still, or why his eyes won't quite meet hers. "Come with me, will you?" he almost snaps at her.

Yes, she will. And she has a few things of her own to say if he's going to bark at her like that. She didn't do anything. "Watch the boys, please?" she calls to Firouz, who's bent over a barrel, intent on a diagram he's sketching. He waves his hand at her without looking up.

Conall has fallen asleep, and Sinbad deposits him gently on his bunk before taking Maeve's arm lightly and guiding her from the room.

"The hold again?" she says in Gaelic. "You know how blatantly obvious that is, right?"

"I don't care." His hands are gentle but his voice is tight. He unlocks the door and she steps willingly into the darkness. If he wants to fuck she's not opposed, but that's not what his body language is telling her. She knows her sailor well by know, knows his tells, and his body isn't screaming desire. What it is screaming, she wishes she knew.

"What's gotten into you?" She turns to face him as the darkness swallows them, the door closing firmly and shutting out all light.

"What's gotten into _you_?" he fires back, and she was right, he doesn't attempt to touch her. She can hear his angry voice speaking her mother tongue, the rasp of his boots on the rough wooden floor, but she can't see him, can't feel the touch of his skin.

"I didn't do anything!" she snaps.

"You damn well did!" His footsteps retreat and return—he's pacing the narrow aisle between stacks of cargo. "Maeve, I'm no good with language. You know that. I've told you countless times. Whatever you were trying to do with that story, just...stop."

She blinks into the darkness. "I wasn't trying to do anything."

"No? By telling the story of a redheaded maiden, the most beautiful girl in Eire, who's being hunted by a witch, and whose lover is too much of an idiot to protect her?"

Is that what he's upset about? A soft wisp of laughter escapes her, though it's not really funny. It's nervous laughter, maybe. Or fearful. "It's Rory's favorite story, Sinbad. That's all."

"That's not all," he insists, and suddenly he's with her once more, his hands gripping her waist, holding her hard. "And what you said about the gods-be-damned Tam Lin tale, too. That the girl would be unhappy, that the man she rescued would prove false. What was that?"

"Only what's commonly muttered among adults after the tale's told," she says. "Why does it bother you so much? Why are you so upset?"

"Because I love you," he says, voice rising. "I can protect you. I _can_. Are you afraid I can't? Or won't? Is that it? Or are you afraid that, after this is all over, I'll leave you? That's never going to happen."

Maeve reaches up into the darkness, finding his shoulders with her palms, and pushes him firmly. He staggers back. She advances and pushes again. Once more he stumbles and this time his back connects solidly with the latched door. "You know what?" she says, voice dropping near a growl. "You're almost as paranoid as your brother these days." Her hands don't even fumble in the darkness; she knows so well the dynamic of his body in relation to hers, and her hands find his face without error. She cups his cheeks firmly in her palms, holding him still. "Listen to me, Sinbad, and try to pay attention. I am not Étaín. For one thing, I'm not the most beautiful woman in all of Eire. For another, I'm no maiden and haven't been for a long time. I am not a _thing_ for men to fight over, and I'm no worse at protecting myself from trouble than you are. Maybe no better, but definitely no worse. Do you hear me?"

"But—"

"No," she snaps, out of patience. "I told a child his favorite story. That's _all_. You're reading far too much into it. You are not a supernatural king, nor a captive prince. You are not living in a fairy story. Someday people may tell tales of your adventures around their hearths, but not today."

"Not living in a fairy story? Half your family has wings, in case you've forgotten. And I may not be physically imprisoned, but Scratch does very much hold me captive."

"He does not," she insists, and she's furious that he'd even suggest it. "You're free to fight him, and you are fighting. You're doing everything you possibly can. You may have been forced into battle, but you are not rotting in a dungeon somewhere and don't you dare suggest you are." Her hand shakes; she's almost ready to slap him. Is she overreacting? Maybe. She's been flying from one extreme to another lately, at least internally, though she hopes she's been able to hide it for the most part. But it infuriates her that he would think of himself as imprisoned. He isn't. Nor was her story in any way meant as subtext. That's not her style. If she's upset with him, she'll say so flat out. He knows that, or he would if he thought about it for two seconds.

She feels Sinbad's body tense a heartbeat before he moves, twisting to the side and swiftly reversing their bodies. The black world spins for an instant, her equilibrium at a loss with no sight to guide it, and then the door is at her back, Sinbad's body hard against her front, his mouth hot and firm as he kisses her. She's still scrabbling to orient herself and her hands fall from his cheeks, grabbing at his shoulders even as her mouth opens to his. He inhales swiftly, a sharp intake of breath against her skin, his mouth hungry, his kiss demanding. It's so intense—overwhelming as her world continues to spin, her body seeking its foundation, its balance, as he sweeps it swiftly away. With nothing better to right herself, she orients herself to him: the wave that spun her, but also the buoy that catches her. He'll always catch her, she knows as surely as she knows the taste of his mouth, the rhythm of his heartbeat.

"I love you," he says, his soft lips dragging deliciously against hers. "Do you hear me?"

Of course she does. She always hears him. But she hears his body, too—the things he doesn't say out loud but speaks just as clearly. His fury at this situation. His raging frustration that he cannot fight Scratch and Rumina openly. And now this, too: she's never tasted this bitter hint on his breath before, but she's pretty sure it's fear. Not for his soul, but for his future. _Their_ future. For her.

"You can't joke about that tale. Not now. Not while we're in the midst of it." He swallows; she hears it in the darkness. His mouth returns to hers, kissing her deeply, desperately. Yes, that's fear. It's something she's not used to tasting on his kiss, feeling in his arms, but she knows it just the same. She sucks his lip gently into her mouth, unclenches her hands from his shoulders and wraps her arms around him instead. Fear is something she knows well. Her anger bleeds away as she holds him tightly. He's a man and he can't tell her he's scared. He may not even know it himself. He just knows that he hates those stories, hates how Midir failed to protect his lover, how people question Tam Lin's fidelity. But these fireside tales are not about him, no matter how close to his heart they hit. They're both oversensitive right now, too filled with worry and, yes, some measure of paranoia, to really think straight. Doubar remains the worst off, but as she holds Sinbad Maeve can feel how it's getting to him, too. He knows she doesn't do subtle. She'd never voice any dissatisfaction with him through a child's tale. But the constant anxiety over that mark on his chest, the slow slide of sand through the hourglass, is making him see dangers that don't really exist.

"I love you, _mo chailín_," he says roughly, his mouth brushing her lips as he speaks. "That will not change once this fight with Scratch is over. If we win, I'm yours forever. If we lose, my heart still belongs to you even if my soul belongs to the devil."

"We're not going to lose," she says firmly. "I'm strong. _We're_ strong. Everything is going to be fine."

"You're the strongest woman I've ever met," he agrees. "And I _will_ protect you. Both of you. Until it's time to fight."

"I know you will." She releases him, turning her hands to her clothing. She unhooks her belt, then loosens the lacing on the wide leather cincher she wears. "Come here." She finds his hands in the darkness and draws them up under her skirt, up past the juncture of her legs, which is usually what he's searching for when he reaches like this. She settles his palm over the hesitant swell low on her belly, well hidden by her clothing but undeniably there. "See? We're fine. We're going to be fine."

He exhales deeply, his palms hot against her skin. "Should you be belting tight like that? Is it bad for him?"

She almost does it. She almost corrects him, tells him that that's a daughter under his hand, not a son, but she swallows the words back at the last moment. Not now. He doesn't need any more disappointment or any further worries, and this news will likely be both. No. Better to wait. There's no rush. "If you want me to stay, cinching is necessary," she says instead, and he doesn't argue with this. He knows.

"I want you to stay. But I want you healthy more. Want him healthy."

"We are. We're fine." She shivers as his thumb slowly glides over her skin, so gently, so sweetly.

"Is he going to be as big as Con when he's born?" he asks doubtfully.

"Good gods, no," she says, laughing even as she's a little horrified at the thought. "Maybe half as big, or even smaller. But they grow fast after."

"Good. Because I'm not sure I believe any woman could survive that." He sounds vastly relieved.

"You'd be surprised what a body can do. Twins exist, after all."

His hand presses slightly harder against her belly. "Please don't tell me there's two of them in there. I'm not ready for that."

She laughs again. No, he's definitely not ready for that, and neither is she. "No. Just the one. And I told you, we're fine. You're a worrier, I know—you're a captain. A leader. It's in your nature. But we're healthy, and you have to relax. You're going to wear yourself out with all this worry, and then who will protect us?" She's not above using this argument if it gets her what she wants, though in reality this fight is hers to win, not his. Their best protection is silence, not a sword, and second best is magic, which he can't wield. She can pretend this isn't the case, though, if it helps him. Let him believe he's remaining strong to protect her. It hurts no one.

"I will always protect you," he says, stubborn and implacable as Duncan refusing to nap.

"I know you will." At least, she knows he'll try. He'll protect her to the best of his ability, however far that goes. He won't ever stop. She has full faith in him. "Now, are you done with your temper tantrum?"

"No." He nips her lip lightly, his teeth gentle as they tug softly on her flesh. "Kiss me."

His hands shift, moving to cup her hips, hot skin to hot skin, gentle but insistent. His breathing deepens and she knows what he wants. "This time," she whispers into his mouth, fully unable to resist when he kisses her like that, when he puts his hands on her, tender but possessive, making very clear that she's his. "But no more. It's too obvious."

His hands slip behind her, palming her ass and squeezing firmly. "I'll let you know when I'm being obvious."

It's probably a good thing, she thinks, that she's going to be huge by the time she battles Scratch, a moon or thereabouts from giving birth. She doubts she'll have much interest in fucking him then, so their friends won't have to suffer through Sinbad's attempts to make up for lost time. Not until after her daughter's born. After that, she makes no promises about her willingness to be discreet, either.

His mouth sucks lightly at her throat, teeth scraping sensuously against her skin. She loves it, but she's forced to push him gently away. "Don't you dare leave a mark," she hisses, her hands sliding swiftly beneath the flaps of his shirt.

"I'm going to cover you in marks as soon as I can," he says, mumbling against her mouth. "Just like after the _teas_."

"You will not. If I surface looking like that, I won't be able to be seen in public for weeks. And Rongar will beat you bloody."

"It would be worth it." He kisses her softly, his hands squeezing her ass again, rocking her into his hardness.

Yes, it probably would be. She's almost willing to think about taking him back to Breakwater for the _teas_ sometime, despite how she's always felt about it. Not while she's pregnant—the _teas_ doesn't affect women already with child—but after. Maybe. Or maybe that's just her grumpiness at near-constant denial talking. Her hands reach for his _hijam_, but as they do, she hears a very familiar sound, one that chills her instantly. Sinbad must have left the key in the lock when he closed the door, because she very distinctly hears the solid click of the locking mechanism snap shut.

Shit.

Tearing herself around, she pounds on the door. "Who's there?" she demands. "We're in here! Don't turn that lock!"

"I know." The muffled little voice on the other side of the door is not one she expects. She assumed a diligent crewmember noticed the key out of place and meant to return it to their captain, or possibly Talia saw them disappear into the hold and decided to play a trick. But that's Rory's little four-year-old voice, plain as anything.

"Rory, open the door," she says, gentling her voice. "Come on, baby. This isn't a funny joke."

"I can't."

"You can," Sinbad says, his voice sounding near her head. "Just turn the key the other way and then lift the latch. Go get Firouz if it's too heavy."

"I can't," Rory repeats. "The man in the barrel said."

Sinbad's hands are instantly a vise on her hips, holding her far too hard. She doesn't complain. "What man?" She struggles not to snap at the boy. "What barrel? Rory, you need to open the door."

"The water barrel," Rory says. "He told me to lock this door and drop the key into the sea."

"No, kid. Absolutely do not do that," Sinbad grates, and she can hear the agitation in him, too, can feel it in the way his hands clamp down on her.

"But he said." The scraping sound of the iron key withdrawing from the lock makes Maeve's heart race. She's not worried about never getting out—people will miss them very soon—but she's desperately afraid she and Sinbad won't make it past that door in time to stop whatever's going on.

"Rory, listen to me," Sinbad says. "This is your captain. You know what that means, right? Put the key back and go get Firouz. Or Doubar, or Rongar. Do it now."

But ordering such a small child won't get him anywhere. Maeve touches his cheek, urging him to silence. "Rory, baby, you're not in trouble. I promise. But you need to go get Firouz. Or anyone, anyone except the man in the barrel."

"He promised, too," Rory says. "He's one of the _Tuatha dé Danan__n_, and he said if I did this for him, he'd show me how to open a door, like the doors under the hills. He said Mia would be on the other side, and I could go to the other realm with her just like Midir and Étaín."

"Rory, whoever the man in the barrel is, he's lying. No one can just make doors appear out of nowhere. The closest we have are the opals, and you know how those work, don't you? You have to set up the link before you can use it, which is very delicate work. Your da made mine for me. It only goes to your house at Breakwater. You can't just open a door to wherever you want. I don't know any magic that works that way."

"Except the doors under the hills," Rory says.

"We're on the sea, boy, there are no hills," Sinbad says

"There are waves. Those are like hills. The man promised." His little voice trembles. "I want Mia, auntie. I want to go home."

"I know you do," she says. "I know. And I will do my best—everything I can—to make sure you and Mia don't have to be parted like this again. But whoever that man is, he's not your friend. He's dangerous, Rory. Listen to me. He could hurt you. He could hurt your little brothers. Please, baby. I know you want Mia, but that man is lying. Protect yourself and your brothers, and open this door."

"But Mia," Rory says. He's crying now, she can hear him, and it guts her. But her skin prickles, the tiny hairs rising along her arms and the back of her neck. Whatever's happening isn't right. It isn't normal. She can't feel the familiar buzz of anyone performing magic nearby, but something's not right.

"I need to get out there!" she says, slamming her palm against the door.

"Your bracelet. Do you have it?" Sinbad asks tightly.

"Yes, but it's useless during the _teas_. They throw up extra protective spells, remember? No one can enter or leave the island until it's over."

Sinbad curses tightly behind her and shoves uselessly at the door. Its hinges rattle.

"Hinges," he says, as if in prayer, and kisses her cheek hard. "Keep the kid there, keep him talking." His body shifts away from hers.

"Sinbad!" She grabs reflexively for him. No way is she letting him move away when she can't see him.

"I'm right here." His voice floats out of the darkness, just a step away. "There are pins in the hinges. I think if I can slip them out, I can work the door loose from the wrong side."

She inhales shakily, hoping fervently that he's right. "Rory," she calls, "don't cry. Please. You're not in trouble. Tell me what you miss most about Mia."

The boy hiccups softly. "I don't know," he says. "Everything."

"Like what?" She hears the sharp sound of metal against metal as Sinbad struggles with the bronze hinges. They should never have come in here. Not yesterday, and not today. It was sheer idiocy. She wants him, but she's an adult and she needs to start acting like one. She's not Rory. She can control herself. "Do you miss how she always wins when you play games?"

"I don't care," Rory says, sniffling. "When she wins she laughs. I like when she laughs."

"Keep going," Sinbad whispers. "I think I've almost got it." He curses. "Some fucking light would be nice."

"I can do that." She lifts a hand and concentrates. A ball of fire appears in her palm, bright and hot and welcoming. Her eyes, used to the darkness, squint and water.

"Good girl. Now keep him there. Don't let him walk away."

"What else do you miss?" she asks. "When she steals your clothes and wears them?"

"I steal hers, too," Rory says. "She helps me do chores. And she sings, like mama and auntie Keely."

"Got it," Sinbad grunts. "Step back. Because of the latch the door's going to fall inward."

She moves well back and lets the fire in her hand die as Sinbad groans with effort, wrenching the door from the separated pieces of its hinges and forcing it inward. The thin tongue of the metal lock screeches in protest before it snaps and the door falls in a shower of dust at their feet.

Maeve rushes Rory, Sinbad just behind her. She snatches him up, holding him tight to her chest as he sobs. His arms wind around her and he drops the key behind her back. It doesn't matter anymore; the lock is ruined and Maeve doesn't care. She holds him tightly, probably too tightly, but he's not complaining any more than she did when Sinbad squeezed her.

"Let's see about this man in the water barrel," Sinbad says, jaw tight, his body radiating tension as he strides forward. He paces into the galley, Maeve barely a step behind, and yanks his sword from the rack before pulling the lid from the water barrel.

Maeve cranes her neck to see, cupping Rory's head in her hand, shielding him as he huddles in her neck. She can't see anything but the flat surface of their drinking water.

Sinbad is nearer, but he shakes his head. "I don't see anything," he says. "What did he look like, Rory?"

"He had curly horns like a ram," Rory says, sniffling into Maeve's shoulder. "The _Tuatha dé Danan__n_ can turn into anything."

"They can," Maeve says, clutching the boy tightly as Sinbad meets her eyes. "But he wasn't one of them."

"Scratch!" Sinbad bellows, and whether he's speaking to the barrel or the air itself Maeve isn't sure, but he's pissed. "How dare you? Scaring a baby? That's a new low, even for you!"

"How would you know, captain?" A mocking male voice greets her ears. "Who are you to place a limit on the lows to which I'd sink? Infants are delicious, in case you're wondering, even moreso when their little hearts race with fear. And anyway, that child's no baby. Babies can't hear me when I call. Something about the pure innocence of youth, blah blah. He heard. He listened. He almost obeyed." A sickening, delighted cackle fills the air. "Such a pity. If I could do more than whisper in the human world, your soul would already be mine. I wouldn't have to play by the rules, wait for All Souls Night to collect my prize."

"Enough, demon!" Sinbad roars. "If you won't fight me man-to-man as an honest soul would, scram! Leave the children alone, they're not my sons and they've never done anything to you."

"I am neither honest nor have I a soul, so don't insult me by assuming either." Light appears, sullen and red, inside the water barrel. In it, if Maeve cranes her neck, she can make out an ugly visage she's only ever seen in artwork—human and bestial at the same time, lumpy and misshapen, terrible in its deformity. The worst part isn't the ugliness, though. It's the keen, malevolent intelligence gleaming in a pair of very human-looking eyes. She takes a firm step away from the barrel, arms clamped hard around Rory as he shudders and hides in her neck. How anyone could look at that visage and trust it, Maeve doesn't know. But, then, Sinbad said Scratch wore a disguise when he first met them. It's possible he altered his appearance for Rory, too.

The boy in her arms whimpers, and behind the door to Sinbad's cabin she hears Con begin to cry. Smart kid. Whether he can feel the vicious presence of the demon or just the general unrest aboard the ship, she doesn't blame him. She assumes Duncan is still up top with Firouz, and hopes he stays there. Part of her wants to be annoyed with the inventor for not watching the boys better, but the man couldn't have had any idea that Scratch would pick today of all days to show himself. It's her fault, anyway, for leaving with Sinbad, a mistake she will not make again.

"While certain...forces...leave me largely impotent in this world, take heed, adventurer. I am not wholly without power, and that soul is mine. Don't think I won't collect."

"You can try," Sinbad says. "You won't win." It's all bluster. Maeve knows how frightened he truly is of this fate. She tasted the dread on his lips just now. He has faith in her, but his fear is very real.

"Oh, you'll play the game. They all do, the ones who know enough to make the attempt. An innocent child and a willing woman. A _champion_." Scratch cackles with laughter. "Your weak mortal attempts to outsmart me all turn out the same—more souls for me to devour. Female souls, sweet as honey, and new little ones fresh from the ether." Those dark eyes flick to Maeve for an instant, so quick she wouldn't be sure she didn't imagine it except for the cold pit of fear that freezes in her belly. There's a glowing red point in the depths of his gaze, a sullen dark red like the light emanating from the barrel, his reflection on the surface of the water. "Go right ahead. Make your preparations. I always win by the end. You see, captain, you weren't wrong before, when you said two kings in love with the same woman meant war. In the child's tale they settle down to chess instead of battle, but chess is war made civilized—a game of bloodshed with no blood. I prefer my games messy. The bloodier the better. But games they still are, whether one man dies or one thousand. War is excellent sport to me, vastly entertaining. So too are your weak attempts to thwart me." His dark, delighted laugh rings forth once more. "So by all means. The board is already set, and I have made my opening gambit. Arrange your pieces as you see fit. Send them against me as you will, or use them to guard your queen if you can. The end result will be the same. It is always the same. I would have enjoyed the results had this little maneuver worked—had the boy willingly opened a door for me, I could have acted with freer will upon your ship. But no matter. The end will be the same. Oh, and captain? One helpful hint—I said the baby couldn't hear my whispers. Best not to assume the same of anyone else."

The image in the barrel disappears, but the light does not. It burns bright, brighter, until with a loud bang, the barrel explodes, sending bits of wood and a spray of water over everything. Maeve whirls, curling herself around Rory clasped in her arms, using her body as a shield. A large piece of debris hits her back hard, hard enough to knock the wind from her for a long moment, and she's glad she moved so swiftly. She'll wear a bruise, but that strike could have broken Rory's little ribs.

"I've got you," she gasps, fighting for her breath as he wails. "It's okay. I've got you." The galley is soaked, she, Sinbad, and Rory are all dripping, and she can feel a stinging pain on the back of one of her arms that tells her a flying piece of wood cut her. But they're okay. She inhales a deeper breath as the pangs in her chest fade, and feels Sinbad's insistent, concerned hands on her shoulders, stroking gently down her back.

"Breathe," he says, and she's too immersed in doing so, in getting her wind back and not dropping the little boy clinging to her, to snap at him.

"We're fine," she manages to say after a moment. Sinbad's hand is firm on her back, the other soft on the back of Rory's head. He shouldn't be touching her, but though the thought echoes through her mind she doesn't voice it.

The door to the galley bursts open and Rongar leaps down the steps, followed almost as swiftly by Doubar and Talia. "What happened?" the first mate demands. "Why is everything a mess again?"

"I HEARD THAT BANG," Firouz calls from topside, "AND I WOULD JUST LIKE TO POINT OUT THAT I DIDN'T DO IT THIS TIME."

Maeve is in no mood to laugh. Neither, apparently, is Sinbad. He touches her cheek gently, then steps back, opening the door to his cabin and returning a moment later with the still-crying baby in his arms.

"Scratch was here," Maeve says, shifting Rory against her hip but refusing to put him down. He clutches her hard, his little fists pulling strands of her hair as he grabs handfuls of her clothes, but she doesn't stop him. Not now.

"Impossible," Doubar insists, but he doesn't sound quite as sure as he'd like to be. "He's locked up in his own underworld. We saw it for ourselves. He can't get out."

"It was his shade—an apparition or something," Sinbad says, raising his voice to be heard over two crying little boys. "But it was him. And I'm not willing to put anything past him. Underestimating him could be the last thing we ever do."

Doubar takes Con from Sinbad, nestling him close to his shoulder. In his more experienced arms, the baby quickly calms. "You're serious."

"Very serious." Sinbad glances at Maeve. "You're hurt."

"A scratch."

His mouth tightens at her choice of words.

"Sorry, but I meant it. It's fine." She can't see the back of her arm, but it doesn't feel serious. She strokes Rory's wet hair and hushes him. "It's okay now. He's gone. It's over."

"I want to go home," he whimpers, and Maeve can't blame him. He's wanted to go home since he got here. Reuniting with Mia was even the lure Scratch used to get him to lock them in the hold. Now that something bad has actually happened, of course it's only reinforced his wish for home.

"In a couple of days," she promises, knowing this is no comfort. "As soon as possible, I promise you. The _teas_ ends at sunset. I'll take you home that night, if you want, instead of waiting for morning."

"And you're staying there with them," Sinbad says firmly.

Her head snaps around, and the cold pit of fear Scratch froze in her gut turns swiftly to hot anger. "I am not!"

"You are. It's not safe anymore."

"It was never safe to begin with!" If he thinks she's leaving just because Scratch's shade appeared and smashed a water barrel, he's crazy. "And Scratch himself said he can't act in this world—not openly. Not without human help. I wonder if that's why he's keeping Rumina around?"

Sinbad doesn't seem to care about this line of musing. "He said that Rory's not the only one who can hear him."

"_Everyone_ can hear him," Maeve growls as she holds her nephew close. She rocks him gently in her arms, as if he were his baby brother's size, as his frightened sobs slowly begin to calm. "He probably spends at least half his time whispering at people. Most are wise enough not to act on what he urges, even if they don't realize the whispers are his. In this case he targeted a baby who didn't know any better, which is deplorable, even for him. But I'm not afraid of whispers, and I'm not afraid of Scratch."

Sinbad eyes her steadily. "You should be."

"Well, I'm not. I know the flavor of his voice. I'd never listen to thoughts he put in my head, so he can't hurt me."

"You're bleeding," he says. "You want to tell me again that he can't hurt you?"

"A. Scratch." She scowls. "I'm not going anywhere."

"DID YOU SAY A SCRATCH? OR THE DEMON?" Firouz pushes through the crowd of other sailors, Duncan close on his heels and hanging on his baggy shirt. "LET ME SEE."

"I'm fine," she insists, shifting Rory's weight into one arm and holding her other hand out for Duncan. "Are you okay, little man?"

He takes her hand and nods. "Wet," he says, observing his dripping brother.

"Very. Come help us dry off, and then you can have something to eat." She moves toward her cabin with the two boys.

"This isn't over," Sinbad says quietly.

"Yes, it is." For her, anyway. He can bluster all he wants, but she's not budging. Whispers can't hurt her. Scratch tried, but now they know he's watching. He overplayed his hand. And he has little power in their world, he said so himself.

"I'm sorry, auntie," Rory whispers into her neck.

"Shh. It wasn't your fault. Scratch is a bad man who likes to trick and hurt people. A demon—do you know what that is?"

"Like the _Tuatha dé Danan__n_, but bad?"

"I suppose." It's a good enough description for her. "Don't cry. You're not in trouble. Everything's okay now." Even as she says the words, she knows they're untrue. Nothing will be okay until they beat the hold Scratch has over Sinbad's soul.

* * *

Late that night, Maeve paces the deck with Con at her shoulder. Rory settled fairly swiftly after the incident, a meal and a short nap restoring him to his usual quiet, sweet self. Duncan is certain he missed something exciting and is therefore grumpy, but otherwise unaffected. Con, for whatever reason, still whimpers on her shoulder and fights sleep. He's been cranky and unsettled since Scratch arrived despite the demon's claim that babies so small can't hear him, and he frets softly as she walks slowly back and forth in the clear moonlight, a gentle motion that usually soothes him. She's done pushing babysitting duties off on her fellow crewmembers, at least for now, and walks Con herself, unwilling to give him up. Besides, Talia and Doubar cracked open the whiskey soon after the evening meal and they're now snoring soundly. They deserve the hangovers they'll have in the morning. Firouz took one shot, choked badly and nearly vomited, and decided he didn't need to experiment any more. Rongar refused to try, insisting that he'd rather remain alert after the day they just had. Maeve wouldn't begrudge him a night off, but she appreciates his solidarity and shares his opinion.

Sinbad insisted on making for shore after the explosion, to replace the shattered barrel and the fresh water it contained, though they have more than enough in their stores to last the relatively short voyage to Attalia. He's also insistent on now keeping within sight of the shoreline instead of taking the shortest route across the sea. This will lengthen their trip, but not even Talia's complaining about that. She is questioning his reasoning, which Maeve thinks is fair. Remaining near shore won't do anything to hinder Scratch or Rumina if they intend harm. All she can assume is that her captain is desperately claiming control over everything within his grasp, since so much right now is beyond him. He can't control their enemies, can't banish the brand on his chest. He can't silence the fear she knows grows inside him with every passing day. He can't even govern Maeve herself—not really. He can order her back to Breakwater, but he can't actually make her go. She can use her bracelet and he can't. With so much outside his control, he's clamping down on everything he can. Remaining close to shore is the safer way to sail, one many captains opt for. If storms or water-beasts sink a ship, there's a far better chance of survival for the crew. But Sinbad has never sailed this way before; it isn't in him to creep about the shallows like a frightened child new to the water. Maeve can only deduce that he's protecting her, protecting everyone on his ship, in the only way he knows how.

He's at the tiller now, refusing to sleep, Rongar watching over the sleeping boys and Maeve walking the fussy baby. She understands how he feels, truly she does. She's doing the same thing in her own way as she walks with her nephew instead of giving him over to someone else. Rongar could watch all three. Sinbad could mind the tiller and the baby. They're both awake anyway. But she stubbornly holds to Con as she walks him. He's her nephew, and she feels guilty that he's so upset. Yes, Sinbad agreed to babysit, but that doesn't matter anymore. What matters is the wrinkled little worried-old-man look on Con's face, the way he bleats softly at her every now and then but refuses to sleep. He's too old to be colicky, and he's not actually screaming, so she's at a loss to explain it. She circles the main deck of the Nomad again slowly, offering him a finger to suck, which he does not accept. His little loosely-curled fist, tugs at a lock of her hair. Maybe he's just as tired of being away from home as his brothers. They're used to the _teas_, but because of the gremlin infestation this trip has lasted twice as long as usual. Maybe three days away from home is fine but more than that is just too much.

Maeve inhales deeply and looks at the tiller again. Sinbad's not happy with her. She knows that. Maybe Con can feel the tension on the ship, the stress between them. Lily, Keely's younger daughter, has always been sensitive to the emotions of the people around her. Maeve wouldn't necessarily be surprised if Con is, too. Abruptly, she decides not to wait anymore. Sinbad isn't happy, but neither is she, and even if that's not what's bothering Con, she needs to address it. She climbs the aft steps and approaches him cautiously.

Sinbad watches her steadily in the moonlight, braced against the tiller, wind crisp in their sails. In the dark blue and silver of the night he looks firm and steady, the picture of a strong, confident sea captain. But she knows the truth. She tasted it on his breath. He's afraid, and he has every right to be.

Con whimpers softly as her feet still. She offers him her finger again, but he chooses his own thumb instead. His index finger flexes, rubbing his nose as he quiets.

There's no small talk. She and her captain are beyond that. He watches her in silence, waiting for her to speak. She disobeys orders all the time, but never important ones. He was not in the mood for her refusal this afternoon, and she can feel his reproach as he looks at her. She breathes steadily as she gathers her thoughts. He has to understand. She has to make him understand.

"I never wanted a _céile_, you know," she says finally, speaking in Gaelic, meeting his eyes as best she can in the darkness. "Never wanted a man to keep. I figured you were all more trouble than you were worth—every man but Dermott. All I wanted in the world was my brother back."

He's watching her, but though she knows him so well, the night is too dark for her to read his expression. His body is stiff and unmoving as he holds the tiller. "I'm sorry you're unhappy." His voice is flat and emotionless.

"Did I say I was unhappy? I am, but not with you. That's all Rumina's doing. Scratch's doing. Not yours." He takes too much responsibility on himself. She knows she's told him this before. She strokes Con's warm little head, his upturned ear.

"He's unhappy, too," Sinbad observes.

"He's unsettled. He has a right." Maeve looks at her captain. "I'm sorry I defied your order in front of everyone else, if that's what you're upset about. I was angry and I didn't think when I said it."

His eyes measure her. "Does that mean you'll go? Stay with the boys when you take them back?"

"No." She shakes her head. She hates doing this to him—defying orders is fun, usually, but that's because she refuses to take it too far. She defies him when it's safe, not when lives are on the line.

"Then I don't know what we have to talk about."

Her mouth tightens and she forces back her frustration. She's not good at this, but getting mad at him will only upset Con. It won't fix the situation. "Who told you what a _céile_ was, anyway?"

This isn't a question he expects, and she sees him blink, the movement of his eyelashes in the moonlight. Those lashes are too long and too pretty for a man, it's really not fair. "Niall, I think. Why?"

"What did he say?"

"Just that it's not the same as a husband. A partner, he said, I think."

"That's all?"

He nods.

She wants to touch him, to take him in her arms and stroke his hair as she strokes Con, soothe the disquiet she feels in both of them. "I'm sorry."

"For disobeying?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. So for what?" He sounds resigned.

She looks up at the stars. They're not in the same places she remembers from childhood, and that alone tells her how far from home she is. It makes her lonely, but at the same time it tells her things she thought she had long since come to terms with—this is her home now. These constellations are not the way she remembers them from childhood, but she knows them. She's learned. She's adapted. "I didn't know," she says quietly. "I didn't want a _céile_, so I didn't pay attention when Keely or Ness talked. I ignored them, thinking it had nothing to do with me."

"I don't understand."

"I know, and that's my fault. You were the one who asked, not me, so I thought you knew. The bond solidified, either way."

He looks at her, and for the first time he moves, shifting his body slightly towards her. "Am I losing something in translation? I'm not great with your language yet."

"No. I'm the one having trouble this time." She laughs humorlessly. This is her fault—all of it. She should have asked him, should have made sure he knew what he was doing. Now it's too late. She doesn't regret it, but he might. "In my defense, I didn't know you even knew what a _céile_ was until you asked to be mine."

"I'll never regret that," he says firmly, and she feels herself grow warm at his insistence.

"But you didn't know. I didn't really, either, but I knew better than you. I should have made sure you knew what you were asking."

He frowns, and the impatient way his hands shift on the tiller tells her he wants to put his hands on her. He's told her he can feel her emotion so much better when he touches her skin, which should have been her first clue as to what was happening. Not that she could have stopped it by that point. The bond was already in place, just waiting for their assent to become permanent.

"I can't go," she says softly. "Not so far, not for so long. I'm not maudlin enough to say we can't live without each other, but it's not a good idea."

"Now I really don't understand." His near hand lifts from the tiller and his fingertip brushes her skin, the curve of her wrist where she holds Con against her chest. Just that tiny contact, and she instantly feels better. Con hums softly and his body relaxes, tension releasing against her breastbone, her shoulder. "Do you think being apart will change how I feel? It won't."

"No." Not how he means, anyway. "But you're my _céile_. It's not just a marriage by another name, Sinbad. It's a partnership. A union—a real one. I don't know how to explain, but we don't function well apart anymore."

He blinks at her silently, the callused pad of a single finger warm and still against her wrist. "That's true enough," he says finally, exhaling slowly. "I've learned to sleep without you, but it's not the same. It's like a catnap when what I need is a full, deep night."

"I know. And it grows worse with distance and time. I'm not being sentimental, I swear. You can live without me. I can live without you. This isn't a love song. But we willingly let this bond happen, whether we understood or not. You acceded to it, and to the changes it brings."

His fingertip doesn't move, his eyes don't blink. "Are you telling me this is some sort of...supernatural thing? Some sort of magic?"

"I believe all love is a form of magic. So does Dim-Dim."

"That's not what I mean."

"I can't explain any better," she says, hugging Con's little body. "I'm sorry. I didn't know—I told you, I ignored Keely when she talked about it. I didn't think it would ever pertain to me. The only man I wanted was my brother back. I don't regret you, but I'm telling you the truth—you can't separate us now. We're partners in this, for life. That can't be taken back." She should have made sure he understood what he was asking, she knows that now. But she didn't then. They both accepted this bond without quite realizing what it meant, but she understood more than he did. If anyone's at fault, it's her.

"I don't want to take it back," he says, and the conviction in his voice buoys and settles her. He loves her. He didn't know what it meant to become her _céile_, but he also doesn't care. He's not angry—at least not about that. "I just want to keep you safe. Both of you." He swallows, a flash of movement in the moonlight. "How do we do that?"

She inhales deeply, once and then again. "There's no more risk today than there was yesterday. We always assumed Scratch was watching, since we knew Rumina was. Nothing has changed. He has little power in this world. I'm not afraid of his whispers."

"I still feel like underestimating him is foolhardy."

"What would you do instead?" she asks evenly. "I can compromise with you. I can be a lot of things for you. But I can't be a wife. Can you understand that? If Leah had lived, if you had married her, you could lock her up in a tower and guard the door day and night with your sword. No one would argue your right. But you can't do that to me."

"I don't want to." His voice is tight, and his hand falls away from her arm. He's upset, and as always when he's agitated his grip on her language grows weaker. He struggles to be understood. "You think I want to lock you away like some jealous sultan guarding his harem? You think I want to spend moons without you?"

"No," she admits. "Not really. But when you try to order me to Breakwater you sure act like it."

"I just want you to survive this nightmare more than I want to keep you with me." His hand returns to the tiller reluctantly. "One thing this mess has taught me—there are things in this world I value above even my soul."

"I could have told you that before Scratch claimed it," she mutters. "You're a good man, Sinbad. Maybe the best I've ever met. I wouldn't have agreed to be yours if I didn't think so. And if being on this ship was so dangerous, Niall and Wren would never have left their boys with us. They trust us. _I_ trust us."

"I do, too, sweetling," he says softly. "But I don't trust Scratch. Or Rumina. He may not be able to act in our world, but she can."

"That's fair. But I'm not so sure they're actually working together." She sucks lightly on the inside of her cheek as she puzzles this out in her own head. "Maybe they were at first, but if so Rumina double-crossed him. From what she told you, she never meant for Scratch to claim your soul in the first place. She always meant to use the threat to get to you."

Even in the starlight she can see the scowl on his face, and it tells her exactly how he feels about that choice. Never. He'll let Scratch take his soul before he gives Rumina the satisfaction of giving in. "So the question is whether he knows he's been betrayed."

"He's the arch-demon. Immortal. Impossibly powerful, though that power can't currently be used in our world. I would hope he could ferret out the machinations of one petty witch." Maeve's scowl matches Sinbad's, and she can't help it. Rumina infuriates her. She's petty and mean, and she approaches even the schemes that seem to mean the most to her, like avenging her father's death, as games. Despite this, she continues to win and win. They've been at odds for most of Maeve's life, and in all that time, despite Maeve's unwavering devotion to the cause, her single-minded drive, she's yet to beat the witch. It's not fair, and she hates it. She's ready to see Rumina lose—for Dermott's sake. For Sinbad's. For her own. The thought of her daughter, a little girl sired by Sinbad, ask the key that finally bests Rumina is sweet indeed. She can't guarantee it will happen, but she hopes. And she'll do everything she can to increase the odds. According to the tale of Tam Lin, if Scratch is denied Sinbad's soul he'll want another to take its place: the soul of the person who sold him a bill of goods. Rumina's soul. Whether it will happen as the tale states, she can't foresee. But she desires it very, very much.

"Scratch is all those things," Sinbad agrees. "It's the powerful part I'm worried about. Rumina has it out for you, too, and she's not hampered by Scratch's limitations in this world. So how do we keep you safe, if going to Breakwater isn't a good idea?"

"It's an option," she says with a sigh, refusing to lie to him. "It's not impossible. It just won't be comfortable for either of us, and I don't think we're at that point yet. No one knows except Rongar."

"And Talia."

Her mouth thins. "I was sort of afraid of that."

Sinbad's body relaxes minutely as he holds the tiller. "I know you don't like her, firebrand, but she's not stupid."

He's calling her nicknames again, which means he can't be too angry anymore. She feels an answering relaxation in herself, and in the baby she holds. Con whimpers softly and moves against her, dropping his nose and rooting gently.

"...What's he doing?"

She chuckles. "He does that every now and then. It won't get him what he wants. I'll go below and feed him in a minute. I just don't think it's quite time to make a decision so extreme yet. Breakwater isn't going anywhere. Talia's concerning, but she needs something from you, so I don't think we have to worry too much. We keep safe by keeping vigilant, as all people in danger do." She places her finger gently in Con's searching mouth. He sucks for a moment, then spits it out when it produces no milk. "By watching for trouble, and not inviting it. That means no more secret trips to the hold."

He groans. "I never want to see the inside of that room again. Besides, the lock's shattered. And I'm not letting those boys out of my sight unless I know they're deeply asleep." He looks at her, and though she can't read his eyes in the darkness, she can hear the wistfulness in his voice. "Truce? I won't order you to leave if you agree not to tempt fate. And you let me watch over you without snapping at me. Please. You can harp on me for being a stupid southern man after this is all over. Just...not right now."

He's trying. He is. She can feel it, even without touching him. And she adores this man, no matter how much his overprotective streak irritates her. "Can I realistically stop you?"

"Probably not. I love you, _mo chailín_. Please try to remember that."

"I do. And I love you, no matter how stupid you are."

He chuckles, his good mood restored. "Go feed the kid, then, and get some sleep, or at least try. I'll check on the boys soon, and see you in the morning."

* * *

_A/N: I have slightly altered the legend of Etain and Midir to fit my story, and mischaracterized Brehon law at several points in this fic. As I've said before, please do not consider me a historical source, this is a fantasy story based on a fantasy series. And yes, I promise I have a purpose behind putting that long, weird fairy tale in the middle of my story. (It's foreshadowing...)_


	28. Chapter 28

_A/N: Okay, so things get a wee bit darker in this chapter, but still not at the darkest point yet. Yes, the big stuff here was all planned from the beginning (mostly: they were supposed to be back in Basra by this point, but oh well) and yes, I do still promise a happy ending. Here we go!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Two days later, Sinbad leads his crew, plus three little boys, into the marketplace of a small village. Maeve has the baby in her arms, Duncan's happily riding on Sinbad's back, and Rory walks quietly at Doubar's side. Sinbad trusts the four-year-old more than he trusts the kid on his back—Duncan has the attention span of a gnat, he's learned, and can't follow directions for more than maybe thirty seconds at a time. He's got a killer smile, though, with deep dimples that Sinbad suspects dig him out of trouble with his mother and Keely whenever he lands in it. That grin absolutely works on Maeve, for all she insists it doesn't. Being tough, she says, is not her job because she's not their mother. Sinbad won't argue with her about it, especially since the boys obey her better than they do anyone else. She has a way of just looking at them that gets far better results than anything he's attempted.

They're antsy now—they're going home today and the two older boys know it. Maeve says she'll take them back herself if no one's come for them by the time the crew returns to the ship. It's a delicate subject for Sinbad still. The captain in him would very much prefer she stay north with the boys, where he believes she'd be safer. The man in him can't stand the thought.

Spending the past week with Niall's boys has taught Sinbad a lot, taught him things he didn't expect to learn. He knew he'd get a crash-course in wrangling small children; that part was inevitable. He didn't expect to learn so much about himself. When he holds Con and the baby looks up at him with those big eyes he can feel how alive he is—can see that little soul shining brightly, as profoundly real as his own. And Con is so small. So vulnerable. Even after a week Rongar still hesitates to hold him, afraid he'll accidentally hurt him. Sinbad understands. He's fragile, those tiny arms and legs pudgy but so incredibly delicate. When he handles the baby and even Duncan he feels like one wrong move on his part could snap any number of tiny bones. He doesn't sleep well without Maeve anyway but while he has three little bodies in his bed with him he sleeps very lightly, terrified he'll roll over and smother someone. Before this week he hadn't realized just how defenseless such small children are. He'd always thought of little boys, when he thought about them at all, as hardy little things, able to endlessly adapt and bounce back from life's knocks. Now he feels very differently. So young, these are far too innocent, too trusting, too open to suggestion, and he's not just talking about Rory's encounter with Scratch. Duncan can be distracted by literally anything—the shift of fabric in the wind, the rise of a voice just out of earshot—and off a moment later, heedless of danger. Conall's immobility is even worse. At least in an emergency he could shout for the boys to run and he's fairly sure they would, but not Con. Con's a tiny, vulnerable little target anywhere except an adult's arms.

That knowledge brings Sinbad's thoughts around, as his thoughts always seem to spin these days, back to his own child, growing safe within Maeve's body. He felt it for himself during their last encounter in the hold, when she took his hand and guided it up under the many layers of her clothing, letting his palm rest softly against the very real swell of her belly. He hasn't been able to see her unclothed in a while and he didn't know, had no idea, just how much that change in her body would shake him. His child is even smaller and more vulnerable than Con, and he felt an instant upwelling of raw emotion when he touched the soft rounding of Maeve's belly, the overwhelming urge to protect that new little life, keep it from harm. Scratch will destroy it if he can, and so will Rumina. They're like sharks prowling a shipwreck in search of a meal. His baby is safe for now, snug inside Maeve's womb, where she swears everything is proceeding normally. He has no past experience to draw from, so all he can do is trust her. But it's not easy to sit back and let her do this alone. Not when so much depends on the child she carries.

He knows he shouldn't stare at Maeve, but his eyes seek her out anyway, as they always do. Her arms are firm and strong around Con's little body, her steps steady. Physically she's fine, hale and healthy, bright as the living flame at her heart. He swears to himself that this will continue to be true. With Antoine's help he can keep her fed and with Rongar's help he can keep her safe. She'll come out of this in one piece. They all will. And a beautiful, vitally important soul will join his family when this mess is over, a blessing Scratch and Rumina have unwittingly given him in spite of themselves.

Blinking himself back to the present, Sinbad hitches Duncan further up his back and hears the boy laugh in response. "Glad to be going home, kid?" He enters the town's small marketplace.

"Home," Duncan agrees. His sharp little heels dig at Sinbad's sides as he climbs him like a tree, rising from his back to settle on his shoulders.

"Ow! Careful. That's my hair." Niall once said his boy, Declan, was a climber. It seems his younger brother takes after him. Sinbad's glad the kid's too small to reach the rigging on his ship. That's a nightmare he's not ready to take on yet. He'll have to find a way to keep his own kid out of it eventually, assuming they show a predilection for exploring. With him for a father and Maeve for a mother, he's certain they will. This kid's going to be so much trouble, and he's going to adore them completely without reservation.

Duncan settles on Sinbad's shoulders and his hard grip on his hair eases. "Tall," he says happily.

Sinbad and his crew are in town now looking for a new lock for the hold door, which he put back together earlier, and a barrel, which their previous stop couldn't supply. The boys were restless aboard ship and not inclined to mind Doubar, so Sinbad figured taking them into town would be less trouble than leaving them behind to get on each other's nerves. Doubar refused to stay with the Nomad, stating that after the incident with Scratch he has no intention of leaving Sinbad alone. And Sinbad won't leave Talia to mind his ship—he doesn't _think_ she'd swipe the Nomad out from under him at this juncture, but he can never be sure with Talia, so here they are, the whole crew, in town.

A few well-placed questions reveal that this town has no locksmith but near the far side of the market Sinbad does find a cooper at work in his open-air shop. He's an older man, broad in the chest, and he smiles when Sinbad and Maeve approach with the three boys. Doubar and Talia have disappeared into the crowd and Sinbad can see Firouz and Rongar speaking with an herbwoman a few stalls down.

"Fine family you have," the man says as Rory crowds close, watching him work with keen interest. He's finishing the inside of a wide, shallow wooden tub, smoothing the perfectly-placed staves with his adze so they lie as flat as a single piece of wood.

"Thanks." Sinbad doesn't bother correcting the man. They'll likely never see him again, and he's just not comfortable getting convivial with the locals after Maeve's poisoning. He hates this new, suspicious edge to his personality; it's not like him. He's a warm and welcoming guy by nature, friendly and obliging. But not now. Not when everyone he meets could possibly be in Rumina's employ.

"Maybe the next one will take after your lovely wife instead of you." The cooper turns the tub and continues his work as Sinbad selects a barrel. The workmanship is solid, the materials good quality. It should last them years if Scratch and Firouz stop blowing things up.

"Next one? I'm done," Maeve says with a sweet little chuckle. "No more."

"We've got our hands full for now," Sinbad agrees, which is more than true, regardless of circumstance. Duncan's bare little heels drum lightly against his chest and he catches one small ankle gently in his hand, stilling its movement.

"MAEVE!" Firouz bellows from the herbwoman's stand. "WHAT DOES DIM-DIM SAY ABOUT THE USE OF WATER DROPWORT FOR HANGOVERS?"

She shifts Con in her arms and heads for their crewmates. How two men, one deaf and one mute, managed to make any conversational headway with the herbwoman Sinbad doesn't know, but Firouz and Rongar are nothing if not resourceful. "Dim-Dim doesn't say anything about it," she says before the general buzz of the market swallows her words, "but I say you'd better make sure you have the non-poisonous kind before you start concocting."

"You say you have your hands full already," the cooper says, rising to his feet and stretching his back, "but I think that wife of yours might just have a surprise in store for you." He chuckles, the gray at his temples glinting in the sunlight as he twists. His spine audibly pops and Rory laughs. "You won't be laughing when you get to be my age, son," the man says kindly.

"Why do you think she has a surprise?" Sinbad frowns. The man seems harmless—just an old craftsman making market conversation. But he can't quite quell the suspicion Rumina planted in his chest, deep under his ribs, next to his heart. If he lets his guard down for even one moment, giving the witch an opportunity to strike, Maeve will pay the price. His child will pay the price.

The cooper chuckles again as Rory's little hand darts forward, smoothing his fingers across the finished inside of the vat, the staves perfectly aligned and shaved flat and soft. "My wife gave me a surprise or two in our day I wasn't expecting. Twins, once. That was a surprise neither of us expected!" He hands Rory a curl of thin wood shaved from the inside of the vat, so thin the sun glows through it like sheer fabric or seafoam. "You can touch, it won't hurt you."

All of Sinbad's instincts are telling him this man is harmless. He's always believed people are generally good at heart and, free of outside influence, will choose to do good rather than evil. But that was before Rumina sold his soul to the devil. He offers the man payment for the barrel without providing any further conversation.

"It's like magic," Rory says, enamored with the man's work.

"A good craftsman is like a magician, I suppose," the cooper agrees. "He knows the tricks of his trade so well it looks like magic to the untrained eye. Think about that, son, when the time comes to apprentice somewhere."

"Thank you," Sinbad says, sorry he can't be more sociable, but he just can't stomach the risk. He has to be so, so careful.

"Take care," the cooper says. "They seem a handful now, but when you're my age you'll be glad of every last one."

Sinbad smiles as he hefts the barrel. He has no doubt the man is right. "Hold on, Duncan."

"Aye aye, captain!" Duncan laughs as he grabs handfuls of Sinbad's hair.

"Monkey." Sinbad winces at the pain but doesn't make the kid let go. He's surprised to find he's going to miss the little monsters when they leave today. "Rory, we're going to Rongar now."

The little boy turns from the cooper with only a little reluctance, racing ahead on swift little feet, and Sinbad's eyes follow until the boy alights safely next to the Moor. As captain he's always had to count heads, constantly aware of the movements of his crew, but small children require more. They're slippery, and need not just occasional counting but active watching. It's all well and good for Niall to set them loose on Breakwater, a small islet surrounded by powerful magical protections. They could fall from a tree or get kicked by a horse, yes, but no one actively wishing them harm can set foot on the island. They're safe in a way they are not safe here, and Sinbad's very aware. He was even before Scratch showed himself.

But Rory reaches Rongar's feet safely, lifting the thin curl of wood high for the man to see, and Sinbad's wary gaze eases. He approaches, the lip of the heavy barrel clasped in a hand and the two-year-old riding high on his shoulders, watching Rongar give Rory the attention he wants. Maeve and Firouz are in deep discussion with the herbwoman and yes, there's Doubar and Talia, just returned from the other side of the market. They have a bunch of yellowy-green bananas, an unusual prize for such a small village outside the fruit's usual trade routes.

"What is that?" Rory's big brown eyes open wide as he stares.

"One of the tastiest fruits you'll ever eat," Doubar says, breaking one off the bunch and handing it to him. "Go on, but share with your brother."

Rory holds the thing doubtfully. "It looks like—"

"Don't say it," Maeve snaps, and has turned back to her discussion before Rory can look at her reproachfully. Duncan laughs.

"Why not?" Talia snorts. "Kid's sharp, if you ask me. He knows what's what, even if his is only the size of an acorn."

Doubar frowns at her. "Never mind what it looks like. Here, I'll cut a piece for you, kid. Then you peel it, like that. What do you think?"

Despite his initial doubt, Rory willingly puts the fruit in his mouth. "Smooshy," he says through the mouthful. "Yum."

"Me," Duncan demands, holding his hand out.

"Not on my head." Sinbad reaches back to lift the kid from his shoulders. "You smash that in my hair and I'll be covered in flies for days."

Duncan willingly attaches himself to Doubar instead, latching a hand around the man's belt as he hands him a piece of fruit. For all of the first mate's grumbling and bellowing he's spoiled the boys far worse than Maeve or Sinbad have, the incident with the silk dresses notwithstanding. He feeds them both pieces of banana and they follow him like little ducklings as the crew turns for the ship. Sinbad lugs the barrel and Firouz has an armful of fresh greens from the herbwoman.

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW YOU KEEP WHISKEY BUT HAVE NO INTEREST IN A HANGOVER CURE," the inventor says.

"I've never had a hangover in my life," Maeve replies, which Sinbad doubts is true. "I have no intention of starting now."

"That whiskey of yours is the devil's own brew," Talia groans. "It's been two nights and my head still isn't right."

Doubar grunts his agreement and turns around to offer a morsel of soft banana to the baby in Maeve's arms. Sinbad watches, amused, as Con considers whether to gum it or spit it out. Everything the baby does is so new, so novel, and he does it with such single-minded intensity that he's fascinating to watch. Often hilarious, too. Yeah, Sinbad's going to miss the boys when they leave today. His ship will be too quiet without them, even with Talia aboard. He'll see them when he visits Breakwater—whenever Maeve and Keely finally make up—but it won't be the same as having them around constantly. These are far too small to employ as cabin boys, but he's giving serious thought to bringing a boy on once this business with Scratch is over. It would be good to have some cheerful youth aboard, and he and Maeve will probably be glad of an extra pair of hands to fetch and carry when their newborn arrives.

Maeve cups her hand under Con's chin until he decides he's not going to spit the bit of banana out. "You were the one who picked the lock on my trunk and swiped my bottle," she says, and she doesn't sound the least bit sorry for Talia's head. "You did it to yourself."

"I'm not convinced it really was whiskey and not some evil potion after all," Talia mutters.

Maeve chuckles. "Believe what you want, pirate."

Sinbad lets them bicker. The more he listens to them, the more he's convinced they enjoy it. Maeve has a wicked sense of humor and a sharp mind and she grew up squabbling with Keely, a dynamic he suspects she misses. Talia has just as sharp a tongue and isn't afraid of her, and though Maeve will never admit it, Sinbad thinks she likes it. She may not like Talia, but she likes arguing and the piratess is a worthy opponent.

"Are we going home now?" Rory asks around a mouthful of banana.

"Soon," Maeve says, a word Sinbad knows the boy has grown to loathe. "I'll take you after we get back to the ship. I know it doesn't make any sense, but it's still early at Breakwater even though it isn't here. Let's let your mother wake up before we drop you on her."

Rory sighs, exhaling a breath that deflates his whole body, but doesn't argue. Sinbad understands. The kid's been happy here, when he lets himself, but a piece of him is missing, and she's very far away. Is that what it would be like for him, he wonders, were Maeve to retreat to Breakwater as she probably should? Rory isn't actively unhappy most of the time, but he's not whole, either. It's an uneasy state of existence Sinbad does not wish to attempt if he doesn't have to. Maeve says the feeling grows worse with distance and time, and Breakwater is a literal world away. Would he feel like a shadow, a mere reflection, after too long? A thing without substance, lacking the essential ingredient which keeps him tethered to his present reality? An apprehensive feeling trickles like beads of sweat down his spine.

He still believes Maeve may have to retreat at some point, when her belly grows too big for her clothes to hide. She won't be able to cinch down forever, and he's not sure it's good for his growing child anyway. But what if parting ends up worse than remaining together? What if being without him proves actively harmful, not just uncomfortable? He has no answers, and in this instance neither does she. Keely does, and he's almost ready to wade into that mess despite knowing how terrible an idea it is.

They board the longboat and struggle through the surf without incident, breaking into calmer water, the Nomad alone in the quiet bay before them. Sinbad sees movement on the deck and frowns. He left a contract man to guard the ship while everyone else went ashore, but his eyes spy too much activity on board for one man. Cautious, he motions to Rongar on the oar next to him and points to the deck. Rongar looks, squints, and nods at him. He sees what his captain sees. There are people, multiple people, aboard their ship.

"Slow down," Sinbad calls as they draw nearer the Nomad. The sun is in his eyes and it's difficult to draw clear conclusions about what he sees.

"Why?" Doubar groans as he hauls at his oar. "I want to get this part over with."

"Slow," Sinbad repeats. He rises from his seat as they draw closer to the ship.

"What in the—" Maeve's hands tighten on Con's little body, but a moment later her stiff, wary spine relaxes and she laughs. "It's okay, Sinbad." She shakes Rory's shoulder lightly. "Look." She points at the deck as a figure comes into view at the railing. "Who's that?"

"Mama!" Duncan shrieks, jumping up from his spot in the sandy bottom of the boat.

"Whoa, kid!" Sinbad lunges for the little form and grabs the back of his loose linen shirt in a tight fist. "We kept you intact this long. You can't go tumbling out of the boat now."

"Mama," Duncan insists as the figure on the ship waves to them. They're close now, close enough that yes, Sinbad recognizes Wren's shape and the shine of sunlight on her tawny-gold hair, an unusual color so far south. She waves to her boys from the railing and they shout and jump, rocking the longboat.

"Easy, shrimps," Doubar says, but he laughs as he pulls at his oar and guides the boat smoothly alongside the Nomad. "Hello, ma'am!" he calls to the waiting figure above him. "They're all in one piece still, I promise you!"

"Niall had second thoughts after he left, but I knew you'd all do fine!" She moves aside as the crewmember left aboard tosses down the rope ladder.

"They may even be cleaner than they were when we got them," Maeve calls, swinging Duncan onto her back. "You hold on tight and don't kick your brother. I'll have you on deck in just a minute."

Sinbad doesn't like watching her climb that ladder with only one arm, the other firmly clasping Con to her chest while Duncan nearly strangles her as he clings to her neck, but he knows better than to complain. If she thought she couldn't do it, she would have left the two-year-old for someone else to hoist. Rory is at her heels, able to climb the ropes and wooden rungs on his own but clumsy still as he fights to reach his mother. Rongar stands underneath, watchful as ever, arms poised to catch the boy if he falters, but he makes it to the rail on his own.

Wren pulls Duncan from Maeve's shoulders and a pair of arms Sinbad does not expect reaches for Rory—smooth, very feminine brown arms. He herds the rest of his crew up to the deck so he can get a look at what exactly is going on.

Sinbad tends to be a betting man, but he would not have wagered on the sight that greets his eyes as he climbs over the railing of his ship. The deck is littered with women.

Most lounge in the sun, turning tired, blissful faces toward its heat, its light. As he feared, he sees not just milky-skinned Celts but _sìthiche__an_ as well. They're disguised for the moment, layers of airy, light linen covering their wings and headbands or long hair obscuring the delicate, lovely points of their ears, but that doesn't make him feel any better.

Nor Maeve, either, apparently. She hands Con to his waiting mother, the two older boys hugging her blissfully, kisses Wren quickly, then rounds on Nessa.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Relax, little sister," the tall _sìthiche_ says, managing to look as elegant as an ancient Egyptian queen aboard a royal barge. "I offered a chance to sit in the fabled Mediterranean sunshine for a small while. It's been a cold, wet spring back home and everyone is tired after the _teas_. Where's the harm?"

"You know the harm," Maeve grits out through clenched teeth. "You know very well the harm. We could have been docked in a big city for all you knew!"

"We're suitably covered, and in my experience men see what they expect to see, not what's in front of them." Unfazed by Maeve's anger, she holds an arm out. "Come kiss your sister."

"Oh, so they're amazons," Talia says, in a voice of dawning enlightenment. "That makes so much sense."

Maeve's glare transfers from Nessa to the pirate. If looks could kill, Sinbad would have a pile of ash on his deck.

Nessa smirks. She slips her arm around Maeve and kisses her playfully. "You wish."

"Don't touch me." Maeve pushes her firmly away. "You can't be here. Wren is fine. You and the others need to go. Does Antoine even know where you are?"

An excellent question, and one Sinbad himself would like the answer to, though he knows better than to ask. He has no problem with Maeve's family visiting, except that some of those family members are _sìthichean_ and therefore vulnerable. They're just lucky the Nomad's moored alone in a small bay right now and not docked with other ships at a busy harbor. He distinctly remembers Ant telling him that Nessa's no fighter. She has the willful spirit of all the women in Maeve's chosen family, but a _sìthiche_ as beautiful as this, who can't defend herself, is a bigger target than he's willing to be responsible for. And she's not alone. The Celts are one thing—exotic but human. They'd cause a scene in port, but would ultimately be in little danger. The _sìthichean_ are another story.

And yes, he can see from the way Nessa's eyebrows lower, her countenance turning stormy, that he was right to keep his mouth shut about Antoine. "My brother is not my keeper," she snaps.

"Easy, Ness," Wren says softly. She kneels on the deck, one arm around her cooing baby as her boys press close, chattering at her at the same time without taking either turns or breaths. "They just helped us by taking the boys. Don't snap at your sister now."

"That's not her sister. No way. No more than that little green girl was." Talia stares at Nessa. Maeve looks nothing like any of her chosen siblings, but Talia homes in on Ness's sepia-toned skin and tight black curls, her beauty possibly more striking than Maeve's but of an entirely different variety. Sinbad wonders what Talia would say if she saw the iridescent shine of sunlight on Nessa's beautiful wings.

And now that Talia's mentioned her, Sinbad glances around the deck and notes the absence of Keely's authoritative voice, her shocking green forelock. Why Nessa chose to bring a flock of women south to sit in the sun he doesn't know, but Keely didn't come with them. She's clearly still angry with Maeve.

Maeve scowls at Talia. "My sisters are none of your business."

"Mia, auntie?" Rory tugs lightly on the soft sweep of Nessa's lilac-colored linen dress.

"I didn't bring her, precious." Ness strokes an elegant hand through his loose curls.

"Because you knew it was dangerous," Maeve growls.

"Oh, knock it off and lighten up for half a second." Nessa slips an arm around her waist and pulls her close. "We'll go soon. It's not like we're moving in."

"No, you just started the party without us." Doubar chuckles. "I've been complaining lately about people popping in and out with no notice, but this is an appearance I'm all for!" He moves into the crowd, beaming at the sight of fifteen or so pretty women sunning themselves.

"What was that you said about my boys being cleaner now than they were when you got them?" Wren picks a bit of half-dried banana out of Duncan's hair and flicks it away. "When you have five of your own to mind, then you can talk to me about how dirty mine are. Not before."

"Little boys are supposed to be dirty, it comes with the territory." Doubar's smile is as warm as the sun as he surveys the deck of the ship. Sinbad still isn't happy about the danger of so many _sìthichean_ aboard his ship, but he's glad to see his brother so merry, anyway. So long as no one—particularly Talia—learns the truth.

"Give me a kiss," Nessa urges again. "You're not really mad at me."

"I am," Maeve insists. "Go kiss your nephews."

"Not sisters," Talia mutters.

Three female faces turn toward her, their expressions instant mirrors of each other, coolly challenging, a small lift of the right eyebrow, the hint of dry amusement visible at the corners of their mouths. "No?" Nessa speaks, but it could have been any of them.

As far as Sinbad is concerned, that look says it all. He's seen it on Maeve more times than he can count—that challenge, proud and fierce, almost haughty, the lift of the eyebrow and hint of a smirk saying so much. Maeve does it. Keely does it. Now he sees that Ness and Wren do, too. Blood has nothing to do with it—they're sisters.

"Are the whole lot of you sisters?" Doubar asks, laughing, and some of the girls do, too.

"Depends on your definition," a cinnamon-colored girl in the crowd says. She's _sìthiche_, Sinbad is certain. Her ears are covered, and she's no milk-skinned Celt. He's learned by now that _sìthichean_ come in all colors humans do—maybe more, for all he knows—while Celts are just one flavor of the vast human population.

Next to Sinbad, Rongar is silent but his eyes are wide. He's staring at Nessa with a look that heralds very bad things for either him or Dermott if the hawk ever returns. Sinbad's stomach plummets. No. This is not good. Rongar can pine over any girl he wants to, any girl in the world, but not this one. This one is not human and therefore cannot live in the south, and her heart belongs to their fellow besides. Sinbad is furious with Dermott right now and not inclined to interfere on his behalf, but Rongar doesn't deserve to be put in that position.

"Keely said Rumina was watching you," Nessa says, and the smile that curls her beautiful mouth is playfully cruel, the smile of a cat who's discovered a mouse's nest. "But sailors are very boring. I thought she might appreciate some better entertainment." A flicker of laughter rolls through the crowd. "I couldn't bring the _teas_ to you for her amusement—well, I could have, but Maeve wouldn't thank me for it." She smiles wickedly at her sister. "So I did the next best thing."

Talia cackles with laughter. "I like the way you think, lady. I'm not interested in tea but I bet the last thing that kinky witch wants to see is an orgy she wasn't invited to." She kicks off her boots and sprawls on the deck between two _sìthichean_.

Sinbad chokes on nothing and coughs to cover it up. The orgy already happened, not that Talia needs to know that. These women wear the marks from it, though his crew either haven't noticed yet or are too polite to question it. He quails at the thought of what Nessa suggested. Rumina will be furious if she sees the deck of his ship right now, but she'd be even more furious if Nessa literally brought the _teas_ to the Nomad. He has a feeling Doubar wouldn't mind, however. Once he got over the wings.

"I didn't know you could order up such lovely company just like that," Doubar says. "I'd have done it years ago." He's enchanted by the flock, and the girls, tired though Sinbad knows they must be, aren't brushing him off. They laugh and he turns pink but bows gallantly.

"RONGAR, WHAT'S GOING ON? I CAN'T UNDERSTAND—IT'S THE ACCENT AGAIN. IT MUST BE. WHY ACCENTS CARRY OVER INTO LIP-READING I WISH I KNEW. I'M GLAD THE BOYS HAVE THEIR MOTHER BACK—LOVELY CHILDREN YOU HAVE, BY THE WAY, MA'AM—BUT WHY THE CROWD?"

"To help us do something we need no help to do," Maeve says, frowning at her sister. "You're not the only one you're endangering, you know."

"You're not the only one Rumina's stolen from, you know," Nessa snaps back in an identical tone. "You're just the only one allowed to do something about it."

Rongar approaches the three sisters cautiously. Sinbad wants to drag him back, to warn him not to for so many reasons, but he can't. The bow Rongar gives the women drips with courtly courtesy, regal in its grace. Not for the first time, Sinbad wonders where his silent friend came from. He has the training of an assassin, but he's no lowly mercenary. That much is beyond obvious. He's well born, or half so at the very least—possibly a high lord's by-blow? Sinbad won't pry any more than he pried into Maeve's secrets, but still he wonders. Manners like that don't blossom in a mercenary camp.

"Oh, a gentleman," Nessa says, inclining her head to him. "I thought those didn't exist anymore."

"Of course they do. Sometimes they're just a little rough around the edges." Wren smiles at Rongar as her sons hold her tightly. "We really should get back, Ness."

"In a minute. I want to make sure the witch sees." Nessa's dark eyes turn cold. "I couldn't stop her the last time she hurt us. No one gets to tell me I can't at least irritate her this time."

"I want to go home, mama," Rory says, hanging on Wren. "I want Mia."

"She's not there yet, dove." She doesn't protest as he clutches her hard. "Your father went to fetch her and your brothers from the village."

"We shouldn't separate them again," Maeve says. "We have to figure out something else."

A ripple of laughter sounds from several women in response to something Doubar has said. The first mate bows playfully over the hand of a girl with long yellow hair that glimmers in the sunshine—Celtic gold. Sinbad might remember her face from the crowd at the last _teas_, but again, he might not. His mind was beyond muddled, and he spent most of those three days locked inside Maeve's room. Inside her. He vowed he'd never attend the _teas _again but now, moons later, he's not so sure anymore. Three days spent alone with his sorceress, devouring her, seems worth a little pain after.

"I've never felt sunshine so sweet," a woman says, her voice slow and thick with pleasure. She lifts her face to the warmth of the sky and inhales a deep breath of bright sea air. "This must be why wine tastes so sweet. Grapes must love the sun, and be loved by it."

"Now _there's_ a money-making venture," Talia says, tapping her lip with her index finger as she muses. "We could bring rich northerners south for the winter, then haul their butts back north when the weather turns again. What do you think, Sinbad? Gussy up a ship real nice for them, sail them around southern ports for a while, let them loll in the sun like seals?"

"If anyone could pull it off, I'm sure you could," he assures her. He himself has no interest. He'll do odd jobs for the rich and powerful at times, but he will not be a kept sailor catering to their whims. He suspects Talia wouldn't like it either once she tried.

Nessa knocks Maeve's shoulder lightly with hers. "Enough about the witch. I'd kiss Sinbad myself if I knew she was watching, and he's not even my type. But where's my boy? I haven't seen him yet. Is he hiding from me?" Her eyes scan the sky.

Talia's head whips around and even Doubar stops flirting to stare at Maeve. Sinbad tenses as he watches her go completely white—not just pale but as white as crushed ice. He's terrified for a moment that she's going to faint, but her legs remain firmly under her. Her lovely face turns brutally dangerous, more dangerous than an anvil-shaped stormcloud. "Hell if I know."

Nessa frowns. "What's that supposed to mean? He's tied to you even worse than Ant's tied to me. You always know where he is. Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." Sinbad can't read what he hears in Maeve's voice, and his inability frightens him. He aches to touch her. He's learned that physical contact, even something as small as a fingertip laid gently on her warm skin, helps him read her so much better. Whether it's part of being her _céile_ or something unique to the two of them he doesn't know and doesn't care. He just wants to understand what he sees in her dark eyes.

What's happening between her and Nessa clicks in his head an instant before Wren lifts herself from the deck and pounds urgently on Maeve's shoulder with her fist, shaking her head vehemently. Maeve turns, but not before Nessa sees the desperate gesture.

"What's going on?" The _sìthiche_ draws herself up to her full height, tall and stately as an empress—hell, maybe a goddess. She dwarfs the little mother on Maeve's other side. "What aren't you telling me?" she demands.

"That's one tall woman," Firouz murmurs, and for once his voice approximates normal volume.

Maeve rounds on Wren. "You didn't tell her? She doesn't know? That's not okay!"

"It wasn't my call!" Wren insists. "Keely and Antoine said, and once they make a united decision that's the end of it!" Wren hitches the baby further into the crook of her arm as he whines softly.

"The devil take Keely and Antoine!" Nessa spits, and while Sinbad understands the sentiment he wishes she'd chosen different words. "Where's _Dermott_?"

More than ever before, Sinbad wishes he had a way of contacting Ant. This is so far out of his comfort zone and he has no idea what to do. He's not clear on the power structure of Maeve's family, how they govern their household, but it doesn't surprise him that Keely seems to run things. He thinks he's glad she's not here, but he wants Antoine—a calmer presence and someone who knows Nessa far better than Sinbad does.

Ness pushes close to Maeve, targeting her rather than their smaller sister. Maeve has made no promise to Keely to keep quiet, so this is probably the right call, though Sinbad hates it. She cups the Celt's face in her long hands, staring her down. Before this moment Sinbad didn't think anyone, even Keely, could do that. "Where is he? Maeve!"

His heart breaks for his sorceress. None of this is her fault. She didn't force Dermott to leave, though she blames herself for it. She didn't keep the information from Nessa, either. But it's now her problem, even if it isn't her fault. He sees the wild fear in Nessa's big dark eyes, the way she immediately imagines the worst. He feels for her, too. When was the last time she even saw Dermott? The little hawk can't go to Breakwater for fear of the magic that protects the precious books. How long has it been since she saw him, even in his transformed shape?

Maeve reaches for her sister. She tries to put her arms around her, but Nessa lets go of her face and pushes her roughly away. "Don't baby me! I'm older than you are! Where is he?"

"Come here, boys." Wren pulls all three close, correctly interpreting this as an excellent time to exit. "Hold onto me. We're going home now."

Rory eagerly grips his mother's belt as she reaches for an opal set into a silver ring on her index finger. Duncan looks like he'd rather stay to watch the argument, but she doesn't give him the option. "Thank you," she says, glancing at Sinbad. "I'm sorry for all this."

"Not your fault. Go on." He nods at her. She nods back, and a moment later she and the boys disappear.

Maeve stares at her sister, brown eyes meeting brown. A ripple of impatience flickers through Nessa, including her wings, which flutter momentarily at her back. Sinbad hopes his crew assumes it's just a burst of wind moving the loose linen of her clothing. "Dermott isn't here," Maeve says, her voice flat. "He left moons ago and didn't come back."

"Why the big deal about a pet going feral?" Talia mutters into the silence. "Happens all the time."

"IT DOES, POINT OF FACT," Firouz agrees. "IS THAT WHAT HAPPENED TO DERMOTT? I WAS AFRAID TO ASK. IT SEEMS UNLIKELY DUE TO THEIR BOND, BUT IT ISN'T UNUSUAL."

"No," Nessa says, denying her sister and ignoring everyone else. "No. He never leaves you. He never would. Where did he go? When?"

"Just before the last _teas_. I don't know any more. I'm sorry." Maeve doesn't reach for her sister again. She likely knows better, but Sinbad can hear the anguish in her voice. She doesn't want any of this to be true, and while she isn't one to dwell in denial, Nessa's forcing her to face Dermott's loss in a way she hasn't yet let herself. He's gone. Now they all know it.

"No." Nessa shakes her head slowly. "No. I'd know if something happened to him. I'd _know_."

"I know. I would, too. He's fine. He has to be. He's just not here." Maeve blinks rapidly—anyone else Sinbad would say was blinking back tears, but not his sorceress. She doesn't cry. Does she? He's never seen it. "Ness…"

"I said don't touch me!" Nessa's arms clamp violently hard over her chest, hugging her frame tightly. "How dare you?"

"What?"

"How _dare_ you? You knew!"

"I knew he left! I didn't know they didn't tell you!" Maeve fires back. Sinbad's at least glad she's willing to defend herself, but she shouldn't have to. She didn't know. He's almost ready to step in despite knowing this isn't his fight. She's carrying his child and she doesn't need any more added stress or guilt heaped on her right now. His sorceress is strong, but everyone has a breaking point. "Maybe they were waiting for him to come back," she says, "waiting until they knew what happened. Where he went. Until they had some sort of answer for you."

"That's not how this works! I'm not a child!"

Nessa's right, no matter how misplaced her fury is as she vents it at Maeve. If Sinbad was in her place and Doubar refused to tell him Maeve went missing, he'd never forgive his brother. Sinbad stands warily next to Rongar, wishing he could give the sisters privacy but unwilling to leave Maeve's side. He doubts Nessa would physically hurt her, even in grief, but they're causing a scene and he's afraid Rumina might somehow be able to tell, like a wolf scenting blood. Ness wanted to get the witch's attention, but not like this.

"Celts are crazy," Talia says. "All this fuss over a bird?"

Nessa rounds on her, but just as Sinbad steps forward to stop whatever's about to happen, an icy wind touches the back of his neck and the smell of magic, like the sky before a storm, reaches his nose. He whirls, hand at the hilt of his sword, as his body tenses. As if his worried thoughts summoned her, Rumina stands before him. She's delicately beautiful, a tiny little thing, like a doll compared to Maeve and Nessa, and her exquisitely-painted face shows nothing but disgust and simmering anger.

"I left you in peace to consider my offer," she says, pale eyes glaring directly at him, staring him down as she's so good at. Her tiny size means nothing—not when she wields as much power as she does. "This is not what I intended at all." Her disdainful gaze surveys the deck of his ship, the flock of women previously lounging, now tense as they draw together in a bunch. The sun still shines as brightly as it did before but he no longer feels its warmth. He steps between Rumina and Maeve without thinking, his heart sinking further as Rongar moves to shield Nessa just as implacably.

But Nessa wants no shield. She shoves herself in front of Rongar's bulk, hissing like a cat as she lunges for the witch.

"Don't!" Maeve insists, but it's Rongar who catches her, his hands firm but cautious not to hurt as he restrains her.

"Let me go!" Nessa struggles against him. Rongar looks to his captain for guidance.

"Don't," Sinbad says, though he loathes putting Rongar in this position. "She's not a trained fighter."

"I don't need to be a trained fighter," Nessa snarls. "I just need her eyeballs within reach!" She strains against Rongar's hold, her hate for the witch lending her strength, but Rongar is still stronger.

Rumina's cold eyes narrow and she paces forward, staring at the struggling _sìthiche_. "I don't tend to remember the faces I trample. But this one—this one I recall."

"At least you remember one of us," Maeve growls, her sword drawn. Sinbad shifts his bulk so he's still between the two women. He'd love if Maeve ran the witch through, but their clashes have never worked out well for her in the past and he's not willing to take that risk today. If Rumina leaves without causing any further harm, that's all he wants.

A flicker of something travels swiftly across Rumina's face as she glances at Maeve, then back to Nessa. "It's not every day a man chooses to give up his life for the sake of an _insect_. Maybe that's why I remember."

Sword in hand, Maeve shoves roughly past Sinbad to stand shoulder to shoulder with her sister. "Take that back!"

Rumina's pert little nose wrinkles as she surveys the crowd. "I don't think so. The stink of this infestation is so strong I can hardly breathe."

The cinnamon-colored girl and several others, both Celt and _sìthiche_, stalk forward. "Say that again," the girl says, and pulls her braided leather headband from her forehead, revealing the delicate, curving points of her ears.

Doubar makes a sound as if someone knocked the wind out of him. Talia curses softly.

"Back, Nox," Nessa says. "This is my fight."

"You brought us here," the girl says, "and when someone says what that witch just did, it becomes my fight, too."

"I don't repeat myself, and with those abominations you have for ears I'm sure you heard me the first time." Rumina's furious gaze turns to Sinbad. "Filling your ship with heathens from the west is one thing. You've already proven you have a taste for savages." She glares malevolently at Maeve. "But allowing an infestation of subhuman _vermin_ is beyond the pale, dearest."

Rongar still has hold of a struggling Nessa but he can't control her mouth. Instead of cursing, as Sinbad fully expects, she spits. It lands on the witch's cheek, and Rumina shrieks with outrage as she rubs at the offending wetness with her sheer black silk sleeve.

"Not bad aim," Maeve says, grimly pleased as she glances at her sister. "Not perfect, but not bad. Were you going for her eye?"

"Her mouth." Nessa never takes her eyes from the witch. "To teach her to shut it once in a while." She jerks her body firmly and almost manages to free herself from Rongar's hold. "Gentlemen," she grates through her teeth, "don't hold women captive!"

"But they do stop massacres from happening." Sinbad turns to Nessa, hoping he has a moment to convince her to leave while Rumina's furiously scrubbing her face. "I know you want this fight, but think, please. These others are vulnerable."

"Vulnerable my ass," Nox says, moving closer to Nessa.

"Do you know anything about Dermott's disappearance?" Nessa demands of Rumina, ignoring Sinbad.

"You disgusting little demon, how dare you contaminate me?" The air around her crackles with power, a warning Sinbad takes very seriously. He'll gladly fight Rumina, but he needs all the innocent bystanders gone.

"Go." He drops into his captain's voice. Nessa isn't a member of his crew, but that doesn't matter. Not with Rumina involved. She brought the other women here, and while several of them look very ready for a fight, the others huddle tightly together, a perfect target for the witch's ire even as Doubar and Firouz attempt to shield them. Talia stands shoulder to shoulder in solidarity with Nox, ready to join this fight despite having very little idea what it's about. She knows what Rumina's done to Sinbad. That seems to be enough incentive for her.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Nessa insists. She tugs hard against Rongar's grip, and Sinbad can see the war raging inside the Moor. He doesn't want to hurt her, but he knows better than to let go. Rumina likes to toy with people more than she enjoys flat-out killing, but her loathing for _sìthichean_ is palpable and if Nessa charges her, Rumina won't hesitate.

"You have to." Sinbad deepens his voice still further. He doesn't shout—he doesn't need to. The authority in his tone rings clear. "Your kin are your responsibility. Rumina is ours. You brought them here when you knew it wasn't safe. Protect them now, and go home."

"I don't know this witch," Nox says, "but I'm with you, Ness, and I'm not afraid of any prissy little southern princess." Her voice drips with scorn.

"I applaud your spirit, girl, but in this case it's best to do as Sinbad says." Doubar's sword flashes in the sunlight as he shifts his body. "This one's dangerous. She has a cruel streak and the magic to indulge it."

"Enough!" Sinbad steps close to Nessa. "Take them home. I won't ask again. You know what you're risking. How many of your blood are left? Could they withstand the death of everyone here today?"

His words are harsh, but the argument works. Sinbad suspected it would. He has no idea how many _sìthichean_ walk the earth, but he suspects the loss of this lot would devastate not just their loved ones but the entire population. Nessa's eyes burn with resentment but she ceases her struggle against Rongar. "This isn't over."

"Take out the trash, dearest, or I'll exterminate them all like the bugs they are. I'm not even worried about this little trick of yours bearing fruit," Rumina taunts. "These winged pests are all but barren, didn't you know? You won't get anything from a fairy womb, though it does disturb me a bit that you'd stoop to the attempt. A bath may be in order. In turpentine." She makes a horrible face and rubs at her cheek again.

"Quit with the histrionics. The only thing she ruined was your makeup. And tangentially your pride." Maeve stalks forward.

"Don't come any closer, peasant! I've had my fill of all you heathens for today. I knew I didn't like you from the first, and now I know why. You reek like the vermin you associate with." Rumina snaps her fingers and dark flames erupt between them like a shield, rippling black and violet and deepest indigo. Maeve yelps and draws back, making Sinbad tense, but she seems unhurt, though she eyes the shield warily and does not attempt to touch it.

Rongar finally releases Nessa, guiding her with a gentle hand at her back away from Rumina and toward the other women. He keeps his body between her and the witch, a shield as unyielding as Rumina's magical one.

"I didn't win last time, but neither did you," Nessa says, her voice grating low in her throat as she stares balefully at Rumina. "And you won't win this time, either. Dermott chose his family—chose me. He chose Maeve. He'd rather be cursed than be yours. Sinbad will choose the same. You can't own a heart! When will you learn?"

"Only destitute trash who have never tasted wealth and power would ever claim such a thing," Rumina says, glaring at Nessa with as much loathing as the _sìthiche_ gives her. "I can own whatever I seek to own! It's a question of might, nothing more."

Nessa nods swiftly. "And that, evil one, is why you will always lose." She glances at her sister. "Kill her. For me."

"I will," Maeve vows. It's a vow Sinbad knows she's made multiple times already, a vow she won't rest until she fulfills.

Nessa extends a hand behind her body. Nox grabs hold and reaches for the other women, all of whom latch onto each other in a tangled chain of limbs. A moment later they disappear.

"Poor little bug," Rumina sniffs as her flames die down. "Expecting you to defeat me?" She giggles lightly and shakes her head.

"I will," Maeve repeats, gripping her sword tightly. "Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But eventually I will."

Sinbad doesn't doubt her for an instant.

Rumina turns to him. "If that stunt with the _insects_ was meant to get my attention, you have it now. And you'll wish you didn't." She takes a step forward. He gauges the distance between them, unsure whether to draw back. With her magic it hardly matters, but he doesn't want her near enough to touch him. "I want to show you something."

"Whatever it is, I'm not interested." He glances at Maeve out of the corner of his eye, and can feel as Talia steps up on his other side. The rest of his crew ring themselves around him as well, defensive and tense.

"We haven't met yet," Talia drawls, sword drawn, "but I already don't like you. And you've smudged your makeup."

Maeve snickers.

It's true—for once Rumina doesn't look immaculate. Her all-black ensemble is flawless as always, but she's rubbed her cheek red where Nessa spat on her and, yes, as Talia snidely pointed out, there's a smear of pale cosmetic on her sheer silk sleeve, proving that she does in fact paint her face—not that anyone would doubt it.

"I don't converse with gutter trash. Whatever dock Sinbad found you under, you'd have been better off staying there. Whatever he offered you, it's not enough to offset the danger of getting in my way. Allow me to demonstrate." She reaches into her cleavage, withdrawing a delicate metal chain. The pendant on the end of it glows sullenly red. "A gift from an associate," she says, putting it around her neck. "Not my usual color, but lovely nonetheless, no?" She touches the glowing thing fondly, and Sinbad knows exactly who she's talking about. The question is whether Scratch knows she means to double-cross him.

"Is that what you received in exchange for my soul?" he demands. There's power in that pendant; he can feel it. Dark and dangerous, it crackles with energy.

"Not exactly. But our mutual friend was going to let that pretty light go out, you see, and all the power that goes with it. I had to do something to keep it. It's amazing what a bit of hellfire is capable of, you know, dearest."

"I'm not your dearest anything," he growls. He wishes he had a clearer answer about what Rumina got in return for his soul, but it sounds like the power in that bit of hellfire is at least part of it and the thought infuriates him. Rumina doesn't need more power; she's dangerous enough already. That she could potentially have sold his soul for more doesn't surprise him, but it does enrage him. What evil will she unleash on the world with something like that at her fingertips?

"Not yet, no. You're being extraordinarily difficult in that regard," Rumina says with an exaggerated sigh, almost a pout. "I've told you over and over again to get rid of that peasant, yet there she stands. Now you've added a piece of harbor trash to the mix. You're not listening. It seems I'm going to have to speak louder."

"You threaten my brother again and I'll kill you myself," Doubar roars. "I don't care that you're a woman, witch!"

"Temper, temper." She tisks and shakes her head. "Sinbad, you have until All Souls Night to accept that I am your only viable way to free your soul from Scratch. You need a woman with child before then, and time is passing, the soft slide of sand through the hourglass. But men always like to leave things for the last minute, I know. Let's see if a little display of what my pretty jewel and I can do might change your mind?" She chuckles and fingers the glowing stone.

Before Sinbad can think of something to prevent her, a fierce, cold wind buffets the ship. An instant later the Nomad's deck is swallowed by fog so dense he can't see anything except the faint red glow of Rumina's necklace.

"Blast this!" Doubar says, and he curses from somewhere lost in the murk. "There was no fog on the horizon!"

No, nor would there be. This is sorcerous, and he doesn't need Maeve to tell him so. He reaches for her, his fingers bumping the hilt of her sword before settling lightly on her wrist. "Can you stop it?" he calls to her above the sound of the wind.

"I don't know about her, but I can fight fog well enough," she says, and a moment later she blazes bright, her magical fire held in her hand and reflected in the gleaming blade of her sword. Unlike the sullen red light of Rumina's stone, Maeve's light is bright and sweet, full of life and hope. Everywhere it touches the gray, sorcerous fog, her fire burns through it, fierce and pure.

"Such a sweet little fool," Rumina says. "Fight the casing of the spell all you like, you won't reach the core. It's not about the mist. It's about the time. Sand through the hourglass, as I said. Sinbad has six moons until All Souls Night—an eternity in a man's mind, I suppose. Plenty of time to play first, no? But what if we, say, cut that time in half? Three moons gone. Just. Like. That."

Out of the mist, Maeve screams in pain. Her fire fails abruptly, plunging them back into blind gray fog. Firouz bellows likewise. Sinbad feels a rush of dizziness followed by deep exhaustion, but the only actual pain he feels is from Maeve's scream, not Rumina's spell. He fights through the fog to where she was just standing, his hands finding her balled on the deck, curled tightly as she writhes in pain. Someone else will have to find Firouz, he can't see, can't do anything but cling to his sorceress. She's alive, but he has no idea what Rumina's done to her.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," Rumina says through the fog. "Aging doesn't hurt. Not just a few moons. Though it's certainly nothing I myself ever plan on doing." She chuckles. "Now maybe you'll take this a little more seriously. Listen to that sand, Sinbad, as it speeds through the hourglass. Three moons down, just like that. You now have three left, and the vagaries of a woman's womb to wager your soul on. Best start thinking hard about my offer. Scratch is waiting." She sounds tired. Sinbad roars and lashes out with his saber toward the sound of her voice, but the glow of her jewel fades and his blade hits nothing. She's gone.

And the damage has been done. The fog slowly begins to dissipate, blown away on a pure salt wind, as Sinbad returns to his sorceress. His heart won't beat in rhythm, jangling and discordant, and his hands visibly shake as he touches her. She's panting softly, her whole body tensed against the pain. She's not visibly wounded and he smells no blood, but she's in distress and something is obviously wrong. She groans, and when he puts his hands on her she's feverishly hot.

"Oh, goodness, that was painful," Firouz moans as the last of the fog bleeds away.

"Painful it may have been," Doubar says, peering at him, "but you're not shouting anymore."

"When was I shouting?" Firouz rubs gently at his ears. "I can hear again. Remarkable, really. Not at all what I expected from one of Rumina's spells."

Rongar hovers next to Sinbad. As the fog blows away and his vision clears, Sinbad is shocked by what he sees. Maeve's soft skin lies tight against her cheek and collarbone, the flesh stripped away as if she's been starved for moons. She's hot under his hands, a thin sheen of sweat glittering at her hairline.

"Off," she whimpers, pulling at her belt. Sinbad obeys instantly, unable to deny her and unsure what else he could possibly do. His mind can't even quite put together what's happened, though the pieces are there in front of him, he knows they are. He undoes the buckle as she fights with the lacing on her cincher, her fingers uncharacteristically clumsy as she struggles frantically. There's something wrong with the baby. That's all he can think as she fights through the pain, gasping on the deck. He smells no blood so she's not miscarrying, but Rumina did something to the baby, he knows she did.

Rongar gestures to the door and Sinbad nods tightly. Whatever Rumina did, Maeve won't want to be stared at by everyone while she suffers. "Easy, _mo chailín_," he says softly, slipping his arms under her knees and behind her back. She's too light and too hot as he lifts her. She cries out again, a sharp bark of pain she can't withhold, but her grip is strong as she holds his shoulders.

"I hate that witch," Talia spits, her face pale. "Even if Firouz does have his ears back. How dare she? You don't change the rules halfway through the game! I'm a pirate and even I know that. If I tried a trick like that halfway through a hand of cards, I'd get gutted."

Sinbad doesn't care about the rules, doesn't care about anything except the woman shaking in his arms as he bears her down into the galley. He's physically exhausted, but his arms are steady around her. The innards of his ship smell awful—another side effect of Rumina's spell? Maeve gags but doesn't actually vomit. He bears her swiftly into her cabin and shuts the door. It's stuffy, but doesn't smell nearly as bad as the galley.

"Breathe, Maeve," he says, though the reminder is as much for himself as for her. She struggles with the laces of her waist cincher until he helps her loosen them, then pulls the restrictive leather off. She collapses back against her mattress once the pressure releases, breathing deeper, some of the tension seeping from her body.

"Hell," she says softly, and he's never heard her mean the word more fervently. She spits an impressively long string of Gaelic invective, curling on her side in the dim light below deck, her hands on her belly, which, freed from the tight leather she usually wears, presses clearly against her soft brown skirt.

"What can I do?" His hands follow hers, drawn to her swollen belly even as he fears to touch her. "What can I do?"

"Nothing." She exhales a deep breath. "It's okay. I think. I don't know. Babies weren't meant to grow so fast."

"We need to get you to Keely as soon as you can work your opal." He's done letting them fight like children. This ends now. Maeve is going to Breakwater as soon as she can safely get there, and if by some miracle she's right and their child survives this spell, she's not coming back to the Nomad. He'll plot with Keely to keep her away if he has to. He knew the danger was real before, but now he knows what true fear is. He presses his hands to the swell of her abdomen, where his child rests inside her. Slowly, as he breathes with her, aligning his tight breaths with hers as they deepen, he begins to put the pieces together.

Rumina threatened to take three moons of time from him, and despite the massive amount of power such a feat would require, it seems that with the help of her hellfire she succeeded. Three moons was enough time for Firouz's ears to heal, and enough time for Maeve's belly to grow round with child. He can't imagine the pain that must have caused, or how much pain she may still be in, though she seems to be resting much more comfortably without her belt and cincher. Growing a baby takes energy—he's a clueless male, but he knows that much. Which must be why she feels so hot under his hands, why she looks so emaciated. Her body was pushed to its limits to support that new life as it struggled to grow far faster than it should have.

"How are you alive?" he murmurs, touching her sweat-damp hairline, tracing the chapped curve of her lips.

Tired eyes open, so deep in the darkness. "I told you, bodies can do amazing things. And my magic's sapped. I could feel it go. Everything went to her." She closes her eyes again.

"To Rumina?" He frowns. Did the witch find a way to take Maeve's magic on top of everything else? That seems beyond unfair, especially considering that new toy Scratch gave her.

"No. Her." Maeve sets her palm over his hand as it rests against her belly. "Your daughter." She exhales a long breath without looking at him and turns to her other side, away from him. "Let me be. I'll leave as soon as I can."

He stares at her back in the gloom. His daughter. His _daughter_. Knowing what she's carrying is...indescribable. Like his first shot of whiskey, maybe. He's not without pain as suddenly the reality settles in his gut, solidifying the truth he's only known theoretically up until now. Even caring for Niall's baby for a week couldn't prepare him for how this feels. That's a very real child his sorceress is carrying. A daughter. A little girl Rumina might have killed with her trick today, a little girl she would have killed, he suspects, if Maeve didn't have the reserves of energy her magic provided. Everything she had—her flesh, her magic, all of it—went to feed the sudden burst of growth Rumina forced on her. A weaker, more delicate woman probably would have miscarried, or even died. But Maeve, though exhausted and in pain, remains strong.

"Rest, then," he says, and touches her shoulder lightly before rising. He wants to hold her tightly, wants to press his hand and maybe his cheek to the firm curve of her belly for hours, wants to will her all the energy inside him, too, no matter how depleted he feels. But she turned from him, wanting solitude, asking for rest, and if that's what she wants, that's what he'll give. The gods know she needs it. "I'll bring you food. See if you can eat a little."

Her head nods, but she doesn't answer. Though it tears him up inside to do it, he leaves her alone as she wishes.

Back in the galley, he finds Doubar carrying a stinking crate oozing slime out of the hold. "What is that?" He winces and breathes through his mouth as the sweet reek pervades the room.

"Apricots. Or they were, three moons ago." Doubar scowls as he heads topside. Sinbad follows and finds Firouz and Talia emptying the last of the milk, now soured despite Niall's spell, from glass bottles over the side of the ship. The crate of apricots follows. Doubar doesn't even try to save the wood.

"You don't look well, little brother." Doubar wipes his sticky hands on a rag and frowns, peering at Sinbad's face. "Taking three moons of our lives wasn't enough? Did that witch do something else to you?"

"I don't think so." Sinbad glances down at himself, but with no mirrors aboard his ship it's hard to say exactly what he looks like. He feels weary to his bones, but this may just be an aftereffect of such powerful magic being forced on him. He rubs his head lightly.

"Maeve?" Firouz turns from the bottles.

Sinbad opens his mouth to answer, then realizes he doesn't know what to say. She's not okay. Not at all. But there's nothing Firouz can do.

"That girl's tough," Talia says, rescuing him with a wink. "Tough as old shoe leather. She'll be fine."

"I don't know why she made such a fuss," Doubar grumbles. "I didn't feel anything. Talia didn't."

"I did," Firouz says, and rubs his ear as he remembers. "I posit that pushing the body to heal faster than it was meant to caused the pain. It was very unpleasant, but didn't last."

Sinbad wants to tell Firouz he's glad he's feeling better and his ears have healed, but he just doesn't have the energy. Everything he has, everything in him, is centered on Maeve and the baby she carries. Two lives he nearly lost, and he's still fearful he might. What if Maeve's body gives out under the strain? She doesn't have any reserves left, he saw that for himself. What if Rumina's spell ultimately didn't kill his daughter, but left Maeve in a state where she can no longer keep two souls alive?

His daughter. He breathes softly as the wonder and fear of this knowledge ricochets through him. He's getting what Niall badly wants—a little girl. Sinbad doesn't care what she is, only that she continues to exist, that she remains safe inside her mother for as long as she needs to. In this moment, a little girl as beautiful and indomitable as her mother feels like the biggest gift anyone could ever give him.

But he can't share this news with his brother, his family, no matter how badly he wants to. He stares at Doubar, at Firouz and Rongar and Talia as they work, and swallows back the desire. Once Maeve is safe on Breakwater he can talk. Scratch and Rumina can't touch her there. Scratch has tried to break in before, Ant said, and couldn't. But until he sees her feet safely on that wet grass, he can't say a word.

"What's wrong with you?" Doubar says, shaking his shoulder. "Rumina did do something to you, didn't she? What is it? You can tell your brother."

She's done so much, not directly to him but indirectly by targeting Maeve. He can't stand it anymore, and he won't let it continue. Finally he and Maeve are on the same page, agreeing that she needs to leave for her own safety and the safety of the child she carries. Being separated will cause other problems, but right now he's willing to chance it.

"He's just moody because his hothead couldn't take the witch's spell," Talia says, piling bottles back in the crate. They're a valuable commodity; Ant will want them back. Talia grins at him; she's trying to help deflect Doubar. He's grateful, as grateful as he can be under the circumstances. He opens his mouth to tell them that Maeve will be leaving the Nomad for a time, but as he draws breath a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. He spins, reaching for his saber, but the figure that appears is a familiar one. He's relieved at the sight of Antoine. With his help they can get Maeve to Breakwater immediately. They won't have to wait for her to recover.

"Where were you?" Ant demands, striding forward. He's agitated—no, he's furious. He hasn't even bothered to disguise himself, and his wings flit at his back, like the flicker of dragonfly wings, a visible manifestation of the disquiet within. "Where were you?" he repeats, stopping barely a stride from Sinbad. "Where is she?"

"Below," Sinbad says, a little taken aback. He's seen Antoine mildly upset before, but nothing like this. He didn't know the man actually got angry.

The _sìthiche_ whirls, striding for the door.

"Bugs," Talia says, and a trickle of shocked laughter escapes her. "That's why the witch was calling them bugs." Her laughter grows.

Sinbad frowns at her. "It's not funny." He doesn't know, but he's fairly sure that's considered a slur. And that Antoine would never have revealed himself, no matter how agitated he was, if he knew Talia.

"Ah, Sinbad, that man has wings," Firouz says hesitantly.

"No kidding." Sinbad is exhausted and just not ready to deal with the headache of explanations. Plus, they're not his to give. They're Maeve's.

Ant returns, bursting up the stairs only a moment after disappearing. "Not Maeve!" he snaps. "Nessa! Where's my sister?"

Sinbad blinks. "We sent her home." How long ago was that? Maybe half an hour for him and his crew. For the rest of the world? He honestly isn't sure.

Ant drops his curly head into his hands and squeezes hard, as if he could stop whatever pain is inside him if he squeezes hard enough. "I know," he says finally, when it looks like the urge to scream has passed. "Her stunt with the other girls was inexcusable. We fought, but you had no right to tell her Dermott was gone!"

"I didn't!"

"I did." Maeve is on her feet in the doorway, her leather cincher and belt once more tight around her waist. She looks like a wraith, white as ice, dark eyes sunken, no longer slender but sickly thin. Her waistline doesn't exactly look normal, but nothing about her does. Sinbad is furious that she'd willingly lace so tightly now, with her daughter so big inside her.

Firouz gasps and strides toward her. "You need to lie down," he says. "What did that spell do to you? You look like death." He's blunt but accurate.

She ignores him, staring at her brother. "I told Nessa. I shouldn't have had to. She's not a child, and you should have told her yourself. What you did wasn't fair to her. I'm glad if she's mad at you."

Antoine's eyes narrow and his face, so often crinkled in his characteristic lopsided grin, turns bitter and hard. "You're glad? Do you have any idea what you're glad of?" He stalks toward her, and though Sinbad has never, never been afraid of the man, he's tempted to step between them now. "We didn't tell her because we knew it would unbalance her! She's been patient, but she's been without her _céile_ for years! You don't know what that's like! Anything could have pushed her over the edge, and you did. Congratulations." He breathes through his nose, hard and tense.

"Antoine, step back," Sinbad says, unable to remain still anymore. He presses his shoulder between them, giving Maeve space.

"We helped you, captain," the man says, turning on him. "Took you in as one of us, and this is how you repay us?"

"I don't understand." Maeve reaches out, something Sinbad isn't brave enough to attempt, and touches Antoine's long sleeve. "What happened? Where's Nessa?"

"I don't know!" he spits. "She came back the morning after the _teas_ angry as a hornet because you told her Dermott disappeared. I left her alone to cool down, but when I went to look for her later she was gone. I tried to reach you but I couldn't—it was like your entire ship disappeared. For moons, girl! Moons! I thought she was with you, and now I find she's not?" He pulls back. "She's out there somewhere, I guess searching for Dermott, a _sìthiche_ girl alone, and it's your fault! And you're _glad_." His wings flicker at his back. "I thought we could trust you. I thought you knew what life was like for us. But you broke us anyway."

"Stop." Sinbad's tired of this. Maeve doesn't deserve her brother's spite, no matter how angry he is. She didn't make Nessa leave. All she did was tell the truth to an adult who should have known it long before. "Leave her alone. She doesn't need this. We'll find Nessa."

Antoine shoves him hard. Sinbad staggers back several paces. Doubar lumbers up, ready for a fight, but he stops his brother. Antoine's hurting and lashing out. They don't need to make it worse. "You haven't found Dermott yet, haven't stopped Rumina," the _sìthiche_ seethes. "What makes you think you can find my sister? What makes you think you can do anything?"

"Ant…" Maeve tries, reaching for him again.

"No." He shakes her off. "Go find someone else to cry to, if you can. Leave what's left of my family alone." He disappears.

Stunned silence settles over the deck. Sinbad can hear the soft lap of water against the hull, the gentle creak of rope as light wind surrounds the ship. He inhales slowly, once and then again. He's the captain. Everyone here is his responsibility. He has to fix this mess—fix all of these messes. But there's only so much one man can do.

First and foremost is Maeve. He looks at her, his heart dropping past his feet, down into the depths of the sea somewhere. Antoine is angry, and this is far more serious than Maeve's spat with Keely. Her dark eyes meet his, stunned and blank. Her brother—if that's what he still is—was very clear. She can't go back. Until they find Nessa, and maybe not even then, that door is closed to her.

"You shouldn't be up," Firouz says softly, breaking the silence.

There's something they can agree on. "Go back to bed," Sinbad says gently. He doesn't like that glassy look in her eyes. It's not tears, but he wouldn't be surprised if she was in shock.

"He's right." She swallows hard, her eyes searching his, but for what, he doesn't know. He'd give it to her—anything she wants—if he did. "I did this."

"No." Of this he's sure. She takes too much on herself and when people blame her in anger or grief, as Antoine did just now, she takes it far too personally. "Listen to me. They should have told her the truth, and helped her through it. They made their own choices, and so did Nessa."

"Will you stop trying to tell me I'm not responsible for my own decisions?" Her voice rises but abruptly breaks off again as she sways. Firouz is at her side in an instant. She accepts his shoulder, leaning on him as Sinbad knows she will not accept his own help right now. "I made Dermott leave. That's what started this in the first place. It was my fault from the beginning."

So. She regrets agreeing to help him, regrets the child she's barely hiding in her belly, as he feared from the start that she would. He didn't know how bad things would get, didn't know the price they'd pay, but still he feared. And that price is growing day by day. Dermott is gone. Her relationship with Doubar is on the rocks, her kinship with Antoine shattered. Nessa has disappeared, and a _sìthiche_ woman alone in this world doesn't stand a chance. Maeve's own health is now shot to hell, and she no longer has the option of retreat.

How many souls, Sinbad is forced to wonder. How many souls is his own worth? Can he willingly keep endangering so many for the sake of one?

But what choice does he have? Giving in to Rumina or surrendering himself to Scratch won't bring Nessa or Dermott back. It won't repair what's been broken between Doubar, Maeve, and Antoine. It may even put Maeve and the rest of his family in greater danger, depending on how Scratch chooses to use his soul once he gains control over it. Devouring it would be too swift an end, too kind, for Scratch's taste. No. The devil plans to use him for some dark purpose, Sinbad is certain, which would put his family solidly back in danger. He can't allow that.

"Come, my dear," Firouz says gently. "Whatever Rumina did to you, you need to rest. I don't know magic but I can see that much. I'll look in our stores, see if there's anything left that hasn't rotted. Get you some water at least. Come."

Glassy-eyed and stumbling, which isn't like her at all, Maeve allows Firouz to guide her below.


	29. Chapter 29

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Numb.

Light shines through the chinks in the decking above her. It retreats, returns. Retreats. Returns. Day follows night follows day. Sailors call to each other. The ship shifts, pressing eastward, southward, further and further from her people, from a home that might as well not exist anymore. Inexorably the Nomad moves, drawn by a sharp, hot wind. All without her. Life continues whether she participates or not and this may be the worst blow of all.

But it doesn't matter. Very little matters now.

Scratch taunted Sinbad with a game of chess, urged him to arrange his men and prepare to fight. Maeve ignored the demon's talk at the time, more concerned with the terrified boy crying in her arms. Now she understands. She should have listened. He's playing for keeps, his queen taking Maeve's people one by one, tearing them from her. And just as in a game of chess, it's her own fault. She let them be taken. She failed to protect them, despite what they mean to her. Dermott. Doubar. Keely. Now Nessa and Antoine, too, which means the entirety of Breakwater—Niall and Wren will not act against the rest. How much longer, she's forced to wonder? How long until she's left alone?

_Not long_, a voice whispers in her head. Her own voice, spoken with her own lilt. Yes, she's sure of it now. Trying to fight the arch-demon and her greatest enemy in tandem was the most foolhardy thing she's ever done and now she's paying the price for her stupidity. Physically she feels awful, but concentrating on that pain and the reasons for it proves too difficult. The growing emptiness inside her consumes her far more.

The people she cleaved to throughout childhood, the people who loved her, kept her safe, taught her to survive, are all gone. She pushed them away with her own hands, her selfish wish to keep Sinbad with her. She can couch it in altruistic terms, claim she was trying to save the soul of a hero, but she knows how hero stories work. If that were the truth, if she were truly fighting for a noble cause, her people wouldn't have deserted her. They'd be lined up with her, ready to fight, too. They're not, which means she must have chosen wrong.

_You chose very wrong_, the whisper taunts as it sounds again. Not that it matters now. Dermott left her moons ago and she all but packed Nessa's bags for her when she told her unprepared sister that her_ céile_ was gone. She didn't mean to. She didn't know the others had kept this from Nessa, and didn't know how badly her sister would take it. But Antoine was right; it's her fault anyway. If she loosed an arrow in a forest and accidentally killed a fellow hunter, his blood would be on her hands, his death on her soul, no matter the circumstance. So too is Nessa's, for she has to face the likelihood that her sister is dead.

Nessa has never been on her own in her life. She's always had Antoine, parents when she was small, and later Keely and Maeve herself. Dermott was hers the second he laid eyes on her. She knows how to take care of herself in the wilderness—how to find food, how to make shelter—but she's no fighter. A female _sìthiche_ alone is as good as dead, a tempting target for the pope's hate-fueled men, for the southern slavers who prowl her island's shores. If she's looking for Dermott she'll no doubt head south and east, just as Maeve did years ago, the danger growing with every league she puts between herself and Breakwater.

Maeve breathes the hot, still air below deck. She hurts everywhere, and yet she doesn't. Like the time she spent nursing a broken ankle through the heart of an Irish winter, she knows she's not well, but she feels numb. The loss overwhelms any physical pain, dulling it, pushing it aside. But the numbing brings no relief. Nessa is the sister who pulled Maeve firmly out of breeches and put her back in skirts. She taught her to walk tall, with pride. She patiently combed through the ruined snarls of her hair with fire-melted fat they should have eaten, picking at the knots with her fingernails until the red mess lay smooth once more. Nessa was the one who taught her to be a woman—taught her and Keely both, for neither had a clue. Dermott was a fine, strong, well-meaning older brother, but this was something he could not do.

Nessa comforted her after her first _teas_, which she had not meant to join, but puberty struck and, never having felt the pull, the fire, of the _teas_ before, she was powerless to stop it. Nessa held her after, helped her wash gently, agreeing that it was not the ideal way for any girl to lose her maidenhead. And Nessa is the one she held, and who held her, cried with her, when Dermott was cursed. Keely and Antoine preferred to fuck away their riotous emotions, a practice Maeve generally approves of but was too young to understand at the time. It probably got them Mia, a niece Maeve doesn't know if she'll ever see again. _Because __you__ didn't think before __you__ opened __your__ big mouth_, that whisper taunts_._ She didn't protect her people as she's always sworn she would. She knew how fragile Ness is where Dermott's concerned, below the surface of that elegant veneer. She knew and she hurt her anyway.

And now she's gone. Three moons, Rumina said. Nessa has been on her own for three moons already. In all likelihood she's dead. Logically, Maeve understands that. The pope's men are ruthless, and fear and mistrust of the _sìthichean_ grows rampant even among Celts as his god gains ground. Maeve has seen the mutilated bodies with her own eyes, burned or hanged or hacked to pieces, left to rot in the rain. She thought her family was protected from that, thought she bought their safety when she accepted the library at Breakwater on their behalf: a sanctuary she purchased unknowingly as a child, bought with her own blood and terror, her strength and will. She survived the massacre at Brí Leith, survived the years of privation afterward, and peace for her family was supposed to be her reward.

_T__hey're not __your__ family anymore_, the whisper says, telling her what she already knows. They're not her family, and that's not her home. Antoine was very clear.

And if Breakwater isn't her home, if her people are no longer her people, where does she belong?

_Nowhere, of course._

The question, and its obvious answer, bring a rising wave of panic, refusing to leave her in peace. Over and over they reappear, like waves on the shore. She's never felt so alone in her life, and it terrifies her. Even when she was on her own before Dim-Dim found her she still had Dermott, and Breakwater was always open to her though she visited rarely, too intent on her quest to take time away. She had her brother, albeit in his transformed shape. She had the backing of her people, her chosen kin, though they could not quest with her. Now all of that is gone.

And the Nomad isn't home anymore. It hasn't felt like home for a long time. This loss is as sharp and gutting as the loss of Breakwater. _But it's your own fault_, the whisper in her head says, and of course it's her own fucking fault. The Isle of Dreams was Dim-Dim's home, not hers. Before that she was a wanderer, a vagabond, tossed here and there by wind and tide as she sought an antidote for Rumina's curse. She had no roof but the sky, no home but the soft sound of her brother's wings. Then Dim-Dim brought this man into her life, a sailor as rough as she, as windswept, as wandering. His ship is even called the Nomad, an apt name for a craft which rarely rests. And here among a group of truly good men, she found herself an unlikely home.

_No more._ No, no more.

_Doubar hates you._ Of course Doubar hates her. It's only a matter of time before the others follow. The first mate is held in high esteem; no one will side with her over Doubar when a line is finally drawn and remaining neutral becomes impossible.

And Sinbad? Her heart constricts painfully when she thinks his name.

_He wants __you__ gone. He's said __so._

He has. He tried to order her off his ship multiple times. She's bringing more danger on him and his family by remaining aboard, she knows that now. She was too stupid to get it before, but now she does. Rumina will keep hurting him, hurting his brother, his crew, until she leaves. Each day she lingers brings more danger. Each day the threat that Rumina or Scratch will act again grows. She's the cause. They've all lost three moons' worth of life now as a consequence.

No more. She can't let it continue. Sinbad loves her, she knows he does, but he loves his brother more. Forcing him to choose will tear him apart, and she can't abide that. So she needs to act first. She needs to leave. He loves her, but his brother will always, always come first, which is probably as it should be. Doubar helped raise him, as Dermott raised her. She'll never give up on her brother. Sinbad will never leave his. That wasn't a problem before, but now it is, and she does not share Sinbad's faith that her child will fix this rift. She's doing all she can to save Sinbad's soul, but she's carrying a daughter, not a son, in a world where daughters have no worth. That isn't something she can change.

_You need to go._

She knows she does. But she's so tired. Everything hurts so much. Even the smallest tasks, like sitting up, putting a cup to her lips, feel like scaling mountains. She does them numbly when prompted, without feeling, because it's expected of her. Because Firouz or Sinbad is there, telling her to. But this hollowness, this empty terror, is at the same time a lack of feeling and the deepest pain she's ever suffered. Asleep, she dreams it. Coming awake, returning to this reality where everyone she loves is either dead, lost, or about to turn on her, is a perpetual torture that leaves her continually drained. She breathes. Her heart beats. Nothing else exists and yet everything does, the whole world moving on without her.

Talia moved into the repaired cabin as soon as she was able, so Maeve has all the privacy she wants now. She misses the soft heat of her nephews' little bodies with a very physical, aching pain. She misses the hard bands of Sinbad's arms even more. She yearns for the touch of him, the smell, all of it very, very forbidden. When the urge to seek him out grows strongest, almost a panic running through her blood, she wraps herself tight in her blanket, so stiflingly hot that she's made herself sick more than once, but the constriction of the fabric pressing tight along her body is sometimes the only thing that keeps her from dropping further into this abyss she can't climb out of.

Firouz and Sinbad and Rongar come at intervals to hold minty water or thin gruel to her lips. Sometimes she swallows, if she rouses herself enough to care. Sometimes she thinks she hears them talking, but the words slip from her memory the moment they're spoken. She can't hold clearly to anything except this gnawing, empty pain, and the conviction that she needs to leave.

_No one will ever stay. You know that. You can't force them to, so you're better off alone._

No, no one ever stays. Her life, when she looks at it now, is a continual quest to keep from being alone, a quest she will always, always fail. And since she doesn't get to keep anyone, she's better off alone.

When she sleeps, she dreams of the coming battle with Scratch. She never wins—sleep retreats but the dreams don't, interrupted mid-war, the battle never won nor lost. She dreams of holding Sinbad in her arms, holding him so tightly that no one, not even Scratch, can take him from her, but suddenly as she holds him he's not Sinbad anymore. She lifts her head from his shoulder and finds herself staring into Scratch's laughing, malevolent eyes. Or Turok's ice-cold glare. That con artist, Vincenzo. A hundred other men, some she's battled, some she's fucked, none she's loved. Faces she thought she'd forgotten until they resurface in her dreams, discordant and fallacious, men she'd never fight for, men she'd never bear for. She'll gladly surrender her life for a noble cause or for the handful of men she loves as brothers, but she'll only ever give herself wholly to this man. No matter what happens, she'll never regret doing so. She only regrets what that choice has cost her. Cost them both.

How long she remains in her bunk, unmoving as the world spins around her, she doesn't know. Days certainly. Weeks maybe. Maybe longer. Time matters, it matters more than maybe anything else in the world right now as Sinbad's remaining days pass away, sand through the hourglass as Rumina said. The witch's threats are very real but Maeve ceases to feel time's passing, numb to the sensation as she's numbed to the light, the heat and stuffy darkness. The smells of food no longer bother her. Her body hurts, but she feels divorced from the pain, floating beside it perhaps, unable to snap back into the moment, the truth, the magnitude of all she's lost.

Then one night, the dark thick and stifling, her eyes open, returning from a nightmare she almost remembers to one she recalls too well. And she feels it, though the sensation takes some time to reach her fuzzy, benumbed brain: they've stopped. The ship bobs with the waves, but the relentless tug of the wind in their sails has ceased. They've dropped anchor.

_Now_.

The whisper in her head echoes with urgency. Is that her voice? She doesn't even recognize it anymore.

She needs to go. She'll fight for Sinbad on Samhain—will always fight for him, whenever he has need of her—but she can't have him. She can't stay. Doubar doesn't want her, and it's too dangerous anyway. If she leaves the ship she can lose herself in the crowd, become just another face among faces. She can cover her head and veil herself like a southern woman. No one will know her. No one will care. Rumina watches Sinbad, not her. With Maeve gone, she won't have any reason to attack the crew anymore.

_You can be safe_, the whisper in her head promises. _He can be safe. But you have to leave him now._

She sits upright. A wave of dizziness washes over her. Her vision dissolves into black sparkles and darkness rushes like the tide into her mind, threatening to pull her back under. Sleep beckons, soft and welcoming. She's so tired, and while her dreams are full of pain, the sweet lure of sleep is not. But she can't. She needs to go.

Maeve fights her way upright and fumbles her feet into her boots for the first time in...a while. Time is vitally important, but it also has no meaning. From her bunk she can see the notches she made in the wall, counting down each day to Samhain. Useless now. She still feels nearly as weak as she did the day Rumina took three moons of her life. Trickles of her magic have returned, but not much. Enough that she knows it's there. Enough that she can light one small candle. In the light of the sputtering flame she finds a blank scrap of paper and a quill. Her handwriting is usually immaculate, but not today. Her hand shakes, and the ink shows, as if she needed the proof, just how little control she has over the body she can barely feel. It doesn't matter. It's legible. She keeps her note to Sinbad short: her books are really Dim-Dim's, so she directs him to give them into Cairpra's keeping. Talia can have the clothes in her chest; she has no use for them. She promises that, barring death, she will remain his champion against Scratch. She won't have him needlessly worrying. She vowed she would fight for him and this is one vow she will not break. She's failed her family, but she won't fail him.

She sets the note on her bunk, where the next person who comes to check on her will surely see it, and drops to her knees by her chest. Levering the lid open shouldn't require both arms, but it does. Neither should her heart pound so painfully against her ribs, either. But it doesn't matter. The pain is meaningless. Her hand shakes as she reaches in, seeking the little leather pouch that holds her small stash of coins. Her fingers brush the cold metal of her opal bracelet and she hesitates, quaking.

_Leave it. That's not your home anymore._

Okay. For all she knows they've added another magical shield to block her, too, so it may not work anyway. She tightens the laces on her leather cincher, pulling as hard as her shaking fingers will allow, then wraps herself in her brown cloak. It's not as comforting as her red blanket, but she's not taking that with her. She needs to travel light, to get away as quickly and cleanly as possible.

Her feet don't want to carry her, knees don't want to hold her weight. Whether that's bodily weakness or weakness of the heart, she doesn't know. But it doesn't matter. She has no choice. She needs to leave to keep Sinbad safe, and to prevent the breaking of her own heart when he inevitably chooses his brother over her. She takes one more breath of this place, warm wood and salt brine, fixes her scabbard to her belt, and opens the door.

The galley is black and silent. She extinguishes her candle, disallowing her eyes any last glance of the place that has been more of a home than any she's ever had. Looking back does no good. She learned that as a child, when Dermott dragged her from their mother's still body. Again when he took her from the wreckage of Brí Leith. The present moment feels hazy and indistinct, like staring through the shimmer and smoke that hovers over a campfire, but these memories are sharp as knives. Doors close. Homes burn. But this time she dropped the latch and lit the fire herself.

On still nights, Maeve can hear Doubar snore from her bunk. She hears nothing now. Maybe he sleeps as poorly as she does these days, or maybe her hearing has dulled along with her other senses. She blinks, puts a hand to her cheek. Her skin is cold, she thinks. Or maybe that's just the numbness. She says a silent apology to Doubar, to Rongar and Firouz. To Sinbad most of all. And climbs the galley stairs for the last time.

She almost doesn't make it. Her head swims and her knees shake like twigs in a cold northern wind, but she orders her lungs to expand and they obey, taking in air. This is familiar, and yet not. She's never had to concentrate so much, work so hard, to do so little. Inhale. Exhale. Stand upright. Remain strong. The air is better out here, she tells herself, though she can't smell it. It should be fresher, cooler. Not cold—never cold. Not here. She can't go home, so she doubts she'll ever feel cold again.

Thinking about home—what used to be home—threatens to plunge her deeper into the darkness she can't climb out of. She has no energy for this pain; all she has is consumed by the struggle to remain upright, to step slowly away from the door and toward the railing of the ship. So she pushes it down, deep down, adding it to the gnawing numbness eating away at her. She stares for a long time off the side of the ship, trying to process with her sluggish mind what her eyes see.

It's a city—a big one. Even so late at night the harbor is not completely silent, sailors here and there heading for taverns or back to their beds. She can hear the sounds of revelry somewhere in that mass of white clay walls and golden firelight, likely a night market. She feels like she should know where they are, where they were bound, but her blank mind is as numb as the rest of her. The location doesn't matter, she tells herself. All that matters is getting away before her body gives out or her heart quails, refusing to let her leave Sinbad. Slowly she wraps her hands around a coarse hemp line for the last time, lifts her legs one by one carefully over the railing, and prepares for a hard landing on the dock because she doubts her arms will hold her.

* * *

The day Rumina bespelled Sinbad's ship, stealing three moons from everyone aboard, his world came to pieces. Not because of the loss of time. Not because of Doubar's redoubled fury at everyone even tangentially involved in this mess. Not even because of all the questions from his crew about Maeve's people, questions he doesn't have the right to answer. His world collapsed because Maeve did, and she has not recovered.

He left her alone that day because she told him to, left her in her bunk after that gods-be-damned spell because he thought she wanted some peace in which to rest. Now he knows that was the exact wrong thing to do, but he doesn't know how to fix it. How to fix _her_.

She's the strongest woman he's ever known, stronger both physically and in spirit than most men. If anyone could survive this mess and champion him against Scratch, he was sure she could. Now he doesn't know moment to moment whether she'll keep breathing. She's broken, and Rumina's only partially to blame. Rumina broke her body, forcing their child to grow far too swiftly within her, eating through her body's reserves and her magical energy alike. But Antoine broke her heart, and right now Sinbad suspects that's the more serious wound.

It's not anybody's fault, he tries to tell himself. Not really. Whatever Dermott thought when he left the Nomad, he couldn't have foreseen this. Nessa didn't act deliberately to wound Maeve or her other siblings, only to put right her own heart. He understands. If Maeve went missing, he'd seek her immediately, too. He wouldn't rest until he found her.

Antoine, though. Antoine he has a harder time forgiving. He watched it happen, watched the man break his Maeve with a few furious words, and the memory isn't easy to bear. He remembers how she looked at him afterward, looked at him without really seeing him, her beautiful dark eyes so glassy. She hasn't met his gaze since. She let Firouz guide her back to her bunk, stumbling badly, and hasn't risen from it. Sometimes when he checks on her she's asleep, eyes moving eerily below her closed lids, her frail body twitching with the force of her uneasy dreams, but she's never peaceful. And she never looks at him. Sometimes she'll swallow if he puts a mug or spoon to her lips, sometimes not. But she doesn't speak. She doesn't cry. She doesn't attempt to rise.

And he's having a very difficult time not hating Antoine for it.

In one swift moment, the man shattered the foundation of her world. He took her family—what's left of it—and her second home, the home that's actually hers by right, though Sinbad knows better than to argue this point. She never wanted that house for herself, but for the sake of her people, particularly the vulnerable little children who arrive regularly and wouldn't stand a chance growing up as Maeve did, homeless wanderers in a land increasingly hostile to both _sìthichean_ and Celts who follow the old ways.

Sinbad is fairly sure Antoine didn't mean to hurt her. His love for his blood-sister, his oldest surviving bond, fueled angry words he'll hopefully take back on consideration. But he couldn't have dreamed up a more painful blow if he tried. Maeve is strong, but her fatal flaw, her biggest weakness, is the crushing self-doubt she lives with moment by moment. Sinbad has seen it many times for himself, though she hides it well. She let him in a little at a time, let him see not only the tenderness at her core, the sweetness she reveals to so few, but also her intense doubt in herself, how easily she believes that all her efforts will ultimately come to nothing. Antoine has known her since she was young, so he must know that doubt is there. He knew it and he struck at it anyway, accusing her of either not caring or deliberately harming their sister. Maeve may know that she didn't harm Nessa out of spite, but she believes her brother. She believes that everything that has happened since Scratch laid claim to Sinbad's soul is her fault. She told him so. She blames it all on herself, on her decision to bear his child and save his soul from the devil.

Her mislaid guilt wouldn't be such a crisis except, coming swift on the heels of her body's decimation by Rumina, her heart couldn't take it and she broke. At least, that's what he assumes. She hasn't spoken since, and he doubts she hears him when he speaks to her. He's taken to sitting on a stool by her bedside at night, afraid to touch that fragile, wasted body more than necessary for fear of harming her or the child he hopes is still alive inside her. He talks to her, strokes her hair lightly when nightmares seize her, hoping his voice helps a little. It doesn't, from what he sees, but he doesn't know what else he can do. She needs deep, healing sleep and plenty of food for her body to recover, but her soul has to heal first and he doesn't know how to even begin that process.

In desperation and gut-wrenching fear, out of other ideas, he finally drew Rongar aside and asked him, in as low a voice as possible, to find a reputable midwife once they dock in Attalia. He knows Rumina might be watching, but he needs to know whether his daughter still lives, what her chances are, and whether there's anything more he can do for her and her mother. Maeve has protected her this long, even from a magical spell that probably should have killed both of them. Now she can't, and he needs to step up. This isn't a fight merely for his soul any longer. It's a fight for her, for a life that wouldn't exist if not for him. He put that baby in Maeve. It's his job to protect them.

If he can. Rumina's spell took so much from Maeve physically, and she's not improving. She's so frail, she looks like a wasting sickness has taken her, even her proud, lovely face sunken and drawn. He thought she carried no extra weight before, but now he truly sees the difference between slender and starving, and he hates it. He wants her hale and healthy, standing proud on the deck of his ship once more, but he doesn't know if that will ever happen. He'd give her what she needs to heal, give her absolutely anything in the world, but he doesn't know how. He rails at his own helplessness, glad when they finally dock in Attalia late in the day that at least Rongar will be able to seek out a midwife in the morning. Assuming Maeve makes it to morning. This is never a guarantee these days.

He stares dully into the darkness of the harbor, remaining resolutely on watch as the rest of his crew goes ashore for a night. No one feels like revelry, not even Talia, but there's too much tension and dread aboard the little ship and they need their space. Rongar offered to stay with him but Sinbad refused, preferring solitude. Attalia is a friendly city not much known for crime. He can watch his silent ship and Maeve at the same time, moving from the deck to her bedside and back.

What Firouz thinks of all this, he hasn't yet said. He's grateful to have his hearing back, but hasn't chosen to share his theories about Maeve's condition. She wraps herself tightly in her heavy red blanket and he knows better than to try to examine her without her permission, but he must know by now that she's carrying, Sinbad assumes. He's a man of medicine, and well versed in the human body. Sinbad can see the swell of her belly through the folds of her blanket, the rest of her body so gaunt that the rise of her midsection clearly stands out now that she's not cinched down. He's scared to touch her, anything more than his fingertips lightly combing her hair, grazing the sharp line of her cheekbone, but he aches to press his hands to the curve of her belly once more. He has to have faith that his daughter's still alive in there, strong and indomitable as her mother. Not for the sake of his soul, but hers. Rumina didn't act with intent to harm the baby she knows nothing about, but she may have done so anyway. He'll see the evil sorceress die for it, he swears. No one harms Maeve, no one harms his daughter, and the witch has done both.

The impotent rage that swells in him has no outlet, which only infuriates him more. He has no target to attack, and he can't lavish care on Maeve as he so desperately wants to. He feels so utterly useless, and he hates it. The emotion jolts him back to childhood, when he stood on a rock and watched Leah disappear into the rush of the oncoming tide. He couldn't save her and couldn't attack the boy who pushed her, older and bigger as he was, ringed by a group of friends who would back him. He couldn't stop the needless death, the senseless destruction of a young life. He can't attack Scratch or Rumina any more than he could Leah's killer, and he doesn't know that he can save Maeve or his daughter, either. But he refuses to just stand by again, refuses to watch as two people so precious to him are taken. Not this time. He's going to find a way to fight.

The soft creak of the galley door alerts him to movement on deck and he tenses, snapping to attention, leaving the tiller instantly. Lately the appearance of cloaked figures on his ship mean visitors from the north, not danger, but he doubts any of Maeve's kin are lurking today. He moves silently, dropping down the aft steps, blending effortlessly into the shadows as he watches a hooded figure approach the railing. It's Maeve, he knows instantly. He'd know her anywhere, even cloaked, even shrouded in night. Her steps are slow and halting, and more than once on the short trek from the door to the rail she falters, her body shaking with the effort to keep upright, keep moving. She halts at the rail and stares out at the shadowed city of Attalia.

What is she doing? He frowns as he studies her in the darkness. She's not well. He didn't even know she had the strength to rise, but she's upright and it looks for all the world like she plans to leave the ship, which he never will allow. Not when she's so drained, and especially not without him. If she needs something he'll get it for her. He'll get her anything she wants, anything in the world, but she's not going ashore. She doesn't even realize she's being watched, which is so unlike Maeve that he knows she's still far too depleted. Whatever's going on in that head of hers, the answer is no.

Her shoulders rise as she takes a deep, hesitant breath. Her hands wind around a line and she steps over the railing, intent on the dock below. A dock she's going to crash into if he lets her swing, which he never will. He strides forward.

"What the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing?" His voice grates out of him, harsher than he meant, but he feels like a desperate man caught in a whirlpool, about to go under, and he doesn't understand her, doesn't understand any of this. He's done so much wrong, he feels it, but he doesn't know how to put it right.

Her whole body seizes up. He feels it under his hands as he reaches for her, lifting her bare, spindly legs over the railing before letting her feet seek the deck again. Her brown cloak, the only piece from Queen Nadia she ever wears, is soft under his hands. But she fights him, as she's never fought his touch before. It stuns him for a moment, enough time for her to break free even in her weakened state. She stumbles, reaches again for the rope.

"No." He shakes off his surprise, frustration growing in his gut, tension in his limbs as he wraps his arms around her, drawing her back against his chest. "Whatever you're doing, whatever you're thinking, no." His hands seek the swell of her belly and find it, but she's cinched tight, which angers him as much now as it did the day Rumina cast her spell. She can't do that anymore. It's not safe. He's an idiot man, not a midwife, but everything in him tells him it's not safe. "Listen to me. Look at me." He tries to turn her around, urging her to face him, but she refuses, pushing against him. There's no strength in her arms, her body, but the fact that she tries chills him. She's never pushed him away. Never. She fights him all the time in other ways, but she's never protested his touch.

"I have to go." Her voice cracks, but beyond the exhaustion he can hear the desperation in her, wild and tense, like a feral horse fighting the touch of a rope. "Let me go!"

"You absolutely will not." Fear eclipses his frustration, drowning any anger that might have built. There's something in her voice, something screaming at him, if he could only understand. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Let go! It's not safe. I have to go."

She's not feverish. If anything, her skin is too cool against his hands. He holds her close, desperately trying not to hurt her but intent on keeping her close as the realization sinks into him. She's not leaving his ship because she needs something in the city. She's trying to leave permanently. His blood runs cold in his veins and his arms tighten around her sharp, emaciated frame. "You're not going anywhere. Why would you even try?"

"It's not safe. It's not safe," she repeats, almost sobbing the words, but her struggles are quickly dying as her burst of energy fades. He's relieved as she slumps against him, but also devastated. His sorceress is strong. He could probably best her in a scuffle like this, eventually, but it should have taken much more time and much more energy on his part, and he ought to be badly battered, if not outright bleeding. She's weak as a kitten when he's used to holding a lioness, and he doesn't like it at all.

"For you out there alone? It's not safe at all," he agrees. He still doesn't entirely understand, but he knows he's taken the wrong tack with her. He shouldn't have left her alone, no matter how much rest she needs. He shouldn't have quailed to touch her, no matter how afraid he is. "Come with me." There's so much he doesn't understand, but this much he does—he's her _céile_ and she needs him. He shifts his grip, hooking an arm gently behind her knees, lifting her against his chest.

* * *

Her head spins. Her body spins. She feels like she's turning to stone again, except stone can't bleed and she's sure her heart is punctured, oozing, spilling pain down her insides. She has to leave before she loses the chance, before she's too tired to make the attempt. But he's so near, touching her sweetly, his body warm and firm, his voice rough-sweet as he struggles to comprehend what she struggles to convey. He's frustrated, she can tell, but she is, too. Why can't he understand? This isn't safe for either of them—his life, her heart. She closes her eyes and pulls against him, the most difficult thing she's ever done.

"Shh. Easy. There's no meat on you but you could still unbalance us." He plants his feet wide under them, a solid stance as he moves to stop her, to hold her, to keep her with him. But he shouldn't touch her. She forgets exactly why, the rising tide of panic rippling through her, but she knows he shouldn't. Her head spins as his warm chest presses against her, his arms firm but sweet, never painful, but no. No. He can't touch her. He can't, but he refuses to let go. His breath washes gently against her ear, her cheek. She wants to steel herself against the heat of his body, the smell of clean male skin, but she feels insubstantial as seafoam. Her energy is failing, fading quickly, and despair rises in its place. Her will to leave ebbs away with her strength, but not the belief that she needs to go. Yet even as she struggles one last time, willing her body to obey her, she knows she's lost. She was capable of walking away from his ship. She's not capable of walking away from him. Frustration wells in her, exhausted anger that can't manage to rise to fury, which only makes her hopelessly angrier, and hopelessly sad. Unable to run, unable to break free, unable to do anything else, she drops her head into the crook of his shoulder and cries.

* * *

Her angry, hopeless tears feel like a kick to his gut. He doesn't know what's wrong, doesn't know why her torpor suddenly broke or why she chose to use it to try to leave. But she can't go. He'll surrender her to the safety of Breakwater if that ever again becomes a possibility, but nowhere else. They belong together, he knows they do. Nowhere is safe so long as Scratch can reach her, Rumina can see her, and if nowhere is safe, at least he wants her unsafe with him.

"Hey. Come here," he says softly. "Come here." He's uncomfortable around crying women in general, and appalled as this one sobs into his shoulder. His Maeve doesn't cry. He doesn't know what he thought, maybe that she didn't know how. But the hopelessness of the sounds she's making fuel his desire to fix this, fix any small part of it he can. Part of him wants to hold her as if she's made of spun glass, infinitely fragile, but he knows her better than that even as his eyes and hands adjust to the new reality of a more physically frail sorceress. He knows her, knows what her body likes. He holds her firmly as he descends the stairs, bringing her swiftly to the darkness of his cabin. Yes, they need to be careful. Yes, Rumina might be watching. But Maeve's needs in this moment are more pressing than the need for secrecy. He lowers her to his bunk in the darkness, hands moving swiftly over her body.

"I'll bring you your blanket," he says, a whisper of her native language against her skin, finding the buckle of her belt by touch. He removes her sword and unlaces her cincher with only a little fumbling. "You've been nonresponsive for days. Do you know that?"

She doesn't answer, lying still where he placed her, crying softly. If she won't respond, all he can do is hope he's chosen the right course this time. He draws the boots from her feet, tempted to hide them so she can't run again. His palms glide up her calves, the bony protrusions of her knees, slipping under her skirt and drawing all but her thin white chemise up and over her head.

"No," she protests through her tears, attempting to pull away from his hands.

"Shh. No sex. I know. You think I'd ask your body for anything more now?" He wraps his woolen blanket around her. "Don't move. I'm going to get your blanket and be right back."

He doubts she has the energy to dress and leave again, even were her heart truly in it, which he can feel it's not. He touches her cheek lightly, stroking her tear-streaked skin as she hides her face in his pillow and cries. He's given her space, and doing so didn't help. He knows they need to be careful, but he can't keep away now. He needs her. She needs something, too, and he can only pray it's him.

Leaving her alone wrenches, even for a moment, but he crosses the galley swiftly and finds her heavy, feather-filled blanket by touch. He's back in an instant, shucking his boots off and wrapping the soft cotton around them both. He draws her close to his chest, her body pliant now, limp and drained. She doesn't struggle, just tucks her head under his chin as he holds her tightly.

"Still fight for you," she says through her tears, her words hazy and indistinct but clear enough to him. She's speaking her native tongue; he wonders if she realizes or if she's just too tired to think in a foreign language. "Always fight for you."

"I know you will." He never doubted her. He's not capable of doubting her. "But why would you run? Help me understand, _mo chailín_."

"Sorry," she breathes, hot and damp against his throat. "For everything. The spell. Doubar. Need to go."

"No." He draws her closer, holding her tighter. "No." He's still afraid of hurting her, afraid he might break her, but he knows his sorceress. She likes to be held hard, likes to feel his arms down to her bones. Maybe this is what he should have done from the beginning instead of leaving her alone in her bunk. It's not safe to touch her in daylight, and she asked for solitude besides, but he can see that was the wrong thing to give her now. "Sweetling, I know you don't believe me right now, but none of it is your fault. Rumina will chase me with or without you, and please don't worry about Doubar. You don't need anything else to worry about. Everything will be put right after Samhain. You'll see."

"No." Her hands clutch his shoulders, seeking skin. He gladly sheds his shirt, letting her tuck herself against his bare chest. She can have as much of him as she wants—he's hers anyway, all of him. "He wants a boy. Can't give you that."

Is that what she's worried about? He kisses the crown of her head, the only part of her he can reach while she's buried in his shoulder. "He wants me safe. As long as that happens, he won't care. Hey. Will you look at me?"

She refuses, remaining obstinately pressed to his shoulder, tucked under his chin, and he can feel her skepticism, her doubt of his words. It's fine. He won't argue with her right now. She needs reassurance, not more strife. "I'm sorry, sweetling. I thought you were sick and needed sleep. I still think so. But I think I was wrong, too." If she wants the heat of his body, the pressure of his arms and her blanket wrapped tightly around her, she can have it. Whatever she needs. "I'm sorry," he says again, and he is, for so much. "I don't know how to do any of this. I don't know what's wrong. I don't know what you need. All I know is that my Maeve never cries. Even when you thought Dermott had died you didn't cry. Not really. Tell me what to do and I'll do it. I'll harness the moon for you if you want it. What were those impossible tasks in that awful story again? Turning swampland to fields? Dredging rivers overnight? I'll do it. Anything. But you have to tell me."

She doesn't, as he suspected she wouldn't, but it's okay. He folds her in his arms, holding her as tightly as he dares, hoping it's enough to soothe her. She likes to bury herself in him despite her height, her own strength. It doesn't solve anything; it doesn't need to. If it makes her feel even the slightest bit better, he'll gladly hold her like this until the sky falls.

"I know," he says, even though he doesn't. "I know. Everything's a mess right now. And I know you have no reason to believe it's going to get better, but you have to believe anyway. For all our sakes." He can feel the swell of her belly pressed against his own abdomen, firm and round, and it's so intimate, so overwhelming. He prays his daughter remains safe in there, alive despite Rumina's devastating spell. "Listen to me. Dermott shouldn't have left without talking to you, no matter how angry he was. And Antoine had no right to blame you. Can you understand that? Nessa's a grown woman and she made her own decision. That's not your fault. I don't know your family well enough to guess what will happen, but I hope he realizes how wrong he was and apologizes."

"Not my family," she says, and the flat, toneless quality of her whisper chills him. "Not anymore."

"Don't say that." He kisses the crown of her head again. "Families are forever."

"Real ones." She pulls her cheek from his shoulder, inhaling a deeper breath. "I don't have one of those."

"You don't have parents," he says, so careful as he chooses his words. He was right when he feared Antoine crushed the foundation of her world. She's a bundle of contradictions, his sorceress, but at her core she's the essence of loyalty, her life given over in service to the people she loves. To Dermott. To her chosen siblings and their offspring. To him. Without those bonds she's an unmanned craft, a ghost ship, facing a storm and in danger of going down. "That doesn't mean you don't have a family. Many people don't have parents. I don't."

"Doubar."

Touche. He breathes softly, struggling to find the words to soothe her. As a vessel needs a captain, she needs something to return her to an even keel, to steady her course. She needs a purpose. A little faith. Antoine took that from her. He needs to help her regain it, if he can. Her tears are calming but he's not sure that's a positive sign. She may simply have worn herself out. There's no hope in her voice, nor in her touch. But how to put back what's been taken from her? He's told her before that Dermott will eventually return and she never believes him. The same will happen if he tries to convince her Antoine will apologize. So what else can he possibly say?

"I love you. _M__o grá thú_, beautiful girl. You're my family, just as much as Doubar. And we're still here: me and Rongar and Firouz. Doubar will come to his senses. And this one here." He rubs her side, unable to reach the curve of her belly as it presses into him. "She needs you. _We_ need you. I can't see the future, can't read your fortune in a deck of cards. But I know who I am, and I know who you are." His hand fumbles at the delicate sweep of her throat, finding her chin and gently tilting her head up. She doesn't resist him, and he drops his head in the darkness, seeking until he finds her mouth. Her poor lips are cracked, evidence of how badly her body needs more than she's giving it, as if he needed any more proof. He kisses her gently, just once, then lets her return to her hiding place in the crook of his shoulder. His palm smooths down her back and he's horrified by the feel of her ribs so stark under his hand, each individual knob of her spine jutting like stakes against her sweet skin. He dropped weight too, with Rumina's spell, but not like this. "I know how strong you are. I know what you're capable of. But I don't know if you remember your own strength. Your own power."

She presses close. She's hiding again, but he lets her. It's fine. Whatever she wants. She can hide from him all she likes as long as she gets better. So much depends on her, and he's not even talking about his own soul. His crew are counting on her whether they know it or not. His brother. His daughter. He presses a hand between their bodies, needing the confirmation of the sweet curve of her belly. "Is she okay? Do you know?"

"She's there." Maeve's voice is so tired. He'll hold her and let her sleep as long as she likes, he swears it, but he's not leaving her alone again. That didn't work. "Don't know anything more. She's there."

And that will have to be good enough for now. He holds her tight and makes himself shut up. She needs to rest, not to be pestered. He can do that. For her, he'll do anything.

* * *

Maeve wakes bleary and hurting—physically hurting, the pain in her body very real and very present. She sucks in a swift breath of warm air, and though her pain doesn't ease the scent of Sinbad, of his body wrapped tightly around her, calms her. She woke from deep sleep blessedly free of dreams, the sort of sleep she hasn't had in a long time. Too long. She leans into the hot hardness of Sinbad's chest, parts her chapped lips and lets her tongue touch his skin, the tiniest taste. It's beyond soothing. This is everything, everything she wants and everything her sleep-bleary mind knows she can't have though at the moment she struggles to remember why. He's forbidden, she knows that well enough. She loves him more than her own heartbeat, but he's forbidden.

Slowly her memories start to trickle back to her—those she retains. She remembers most of the past night well enough—the urge to run, her own voice whispering in her mind, pushing her to leave. Then Sinbad's arms lifting her, preventing her escape. He begged her to tell him what was wrong, what she needed from him, and she couldn't. She couldn't, because there's nothing he can do. She loves him desperately, but love isn't enough to stop the pain she knows will come. She presses close, awash in the peace of smooth skin, the little hairs on his chest tickling her cheek. In this moment, his skin is all she wants in the world. She knows she shouldn't, but she surrenders this fight. Being without him hurts too much. She wraps her arms around his hard body and holds tight. It won't solve anything, but she can't stop herself.

"Hey." His voice sounds above her, gentle and deep, not rough with sleep. How long he's been awake, holding her as she sleeps, she doesn't know. She doesn't even know what time it is in the perpetual murk below deck. She can see him in the shadows, daylight gleaming through chinks in the decking like stars in the night sky, but not well. "I expected you to sleep longer."

"Time?" Is that her voice? It sounds so rough. She tries to clear her throat, but it doesn't help. She's been divorced from her body for too long and it feels strange to be back in it, fully present. Also painful. Everything hurts. She aches badly from head to toe.

"Morning." He strokes her hair with reverent fingers. "If I bring you food, do you think you could eat?"

She considers the question. The mention of food makes her belly cramp oddly, a sensation she remembers from childhood, and the pain distinguishes itself from the other hurts of her body—desperate hunger. Why hadn't she noticed before? She knows this feeling well, though the urgent nature of her body's cry for food isn't one she's felt for a long time. She hasn't been literally starving since...well, a long time. Slowly she nods, seeking Sinbad's face in the shadows. She blinks. Is that just the lack of light playing tricks, or does he look skinnier, a faint gauntness to his cheeks?

"What's the matter?" He traces the curve of her lower lip lightly with his thumb, a warm caress.

So much. She shouldn't be here. He shouldn't touch her. He looks off. But she's so tired, and she's afraid if she thinks too hard the numbness will return. That can't happen. She has to fight it—he was right about that. For her daughter's sake. She lets her hand rest on her belly, her magic probing, searching for the little spark of life she's been able to feel for weeks now, even without Rumina disastrously hastening things along. And yes, she's there. Maeve's magic stores are still too depleted to feel any more than that, but she's there. The thought buoys her. Sinbad was right. No matter how much she's lost, she has to keep fighting. She'll lose everything else if she doesn't—lose the daughter she's sworn to protect, and the man who fathered her, too. For their sakes, she has to keep trying. So she swallows all the answers she wants to give but can't, all the reasons she has for pushing him away, and just shakes her head. Her mouth moues and she kisses the pad of his thumb where it rests against her lip.

"_M__o chailín_." He kisses her mouth softly, then rises from his bunk. "You stay. I'll be back. No more running."

No, no more. At least, not right now. She settles back against his pillow, burrowing under her blanket despite the warmth of the morning. With Breakwater closed to her, there's nowhere for her to run, nothing left for her in the north. She has to accept that, and move on. Her daughter will be born in the south, raised in the south, with a southern father and a southern uncle who hopefully tolerates her presence. It's not the sprawling family of cousins she envisioned for her girl, but there's nothing she can do about that now.

Leaving Sinbad would still be the wiser choice, but without the frantic, terrified burst of energy she felt last night, she doubts she can do it. Rumina wants Sinbad, not her, so presumably, so long as she doesn't know Maeve is carrying the child that will foil her plans, she'd leave her in peace if they parted. But Sinbad isn't going to let her leave, and now that she fully inhabits her body once again, Maeve isn't so sure of her chances alone. Rumina's spell took more from her than she realized. Until she recovers, however long that takes, she won't be much use to anyone.

That spell should have killed her, she suspects, or her daughter at the very least. Yet they both survive. She's weak and weary, only a glimmer of her former magic remaining, and she has no idea what shape her baby is in, but they're alive. At least she's been given that much, and she tries to be grateful for it despite what she's lost. She needs faith, Sinbad told her last night. Something to believe in. She's never been one for religion, but she doubts that's what he meant. Some people believe in gods. Others in kings or heroes. Firouz's faith lies in the natural world and his own brain, in science. Dim-Dim has faith that everything happens for a reason. Maeve has never been able to submit herself to that belief, and the last few moons have not made her any more willing to reconsider. But she understands what Sinbad meant. She used to have faith—in her own physical strength. In the triumph of good over evil. In the bonds of family, the power of love. She has faith in none of it anymore. Maybe it's not too much to ask of her, to believe in herself. But she can't do it. Not after so many failures.

But she can believe in Sinbad, and she can believe in her daughter. The little life she harbors holds so much promise: her father's strength, charisma, and optimism, and possibly some magic as well if that's something Maeve can hand down. She'll gladly give it all to her, everything she has—she'll give her life without regret if it means that her daughter will live. She wraps an arm under the swell of her belly, below the blanket, her skin stretched and tight. It's uncomfortable, and she's furious at Rumina's trick, but as long as her daughter emerges unharmed that's all that matters.

She doesn't specifically remember telling Sinbad she's carrying a daughter, but he knows, so clearly she did. He doesn't seem upset, which she guess makes sense. He almost lost both of them and his chance to free his soul along with them, so he probably doesn't feel much like complaining at the moment. But Doubar will, when he learns. And she knows all fathers would much prefer sons, no matter how tactful Sinbad is being about it. She strokes her thumb along her belly, runs her fingertip over her navel, a completely different shape than it used to be. Sinbad is right. As long as Scratch and Rumina don't know about her baby, they can't take her away. As long as she can keep her secret, she's free to love her as deeply as she can, lavish that little soul with all the love she can't give anyone else. Once she rises from this bed, everything has to go back to the way it was. She shouldn't even be here now, but she honestly doubts her ability to make it across the galley on her own. When she does, this soft interlude with Sinbad will end. She'll have to cinch down tightly at all times, have to play pretend with him once more. But she can love her daughter, feed her with her magic as it returns—if it returns—and nurture this bond, supporting her as she grows, even as she has to hide her.

To that end, though she knows how reckless it is, how much she's tempting fate, she gives her baby a gift: a name. A name borne of the north, a last parting gesture to and from her kin as she turns to face a life lived fully among Sinbad's people for the rest of her days. Finn mac Cumhaill was her people's mightiest hero, a warrior whose legends she most loved to hear Dermott tell as a child. She gifts her daughter the strength of his name, coupled with a feminine suffix, hoping that her Finleigh will be strong enough, with a hero for a father and a hero for a namesake, to withstand the next few moons and the fight that's coming.

* * *

Sinbad returns with oat gruel and a mug of Keely's minty herbal brew, the herbs somewhat musty but not rotten. "I'm sorry," he says as he helps her to sit, propping his pillow behind her back. "Nearly everything in our stores rotted because of Rumina's spell. The oats are fine, and Firouz said your herbs were, too. We restocked for everyone else in a village on the way to Attalia, but I wanted to save the oats for you, and the last of the honey, since I knew they were safe."

She shrugs; she's never cared what she eats, except the earlier moons when her nose constantly disrupted her belly. Her stomach feels sick with hunger now, but not because of the smell of starch rising from her bowl. She drinks Keely's herbs, refusing the wave of sorrow that threatens to take her. She'll never get the chance to make up with her sister now, and she deeply regrets not doing so earlier. But she made her choice. She has to live with it. She eats quickly, a wave of dizziness and heat washing over her, but no nausea.

As she finishes, Sinbad holds a torn piece of paper out to her. She doesn't remember writing him a note until she reads her own words, the handwriting so jagged and uneven, so unlike her.

"No more," he says softly, sitting on the hard wooden edge of his bunk, his eyes watching her intently. "For a hundred reasons, no more. Give Talia the clothes if it makes you happy, or sell them, do whatever you like. But no more running. You said it yourself, we don't work well apart anymore. If you can't go to Breakwater, where I know you'd be safe, then we're facing this together."

Can she promise? She watches him, considering. He thinks his job is to protect her, but he's wrong. In this case, she has to protect him. Save him. And if leaving him is the only way to do that, she will. She'd rather live with half a heart than the knowledge she caused his damnation.

"Promise me," he presses. "I don't know what would have happened if I wasn't on watch last night, and I can't keep living with that fear. What if you had hit your head when you tried to leave the ship, or fallen in the water? You were in no shape to pull yourself out. You still aren't."

She knows. One good cry, one night of peaceful sleep with her _céile_, and some musty herbs aren't enough to replace what Rumina took. But it's a start. "I promise," she says, knowing even as she vows that she may break it. She may not have a choice. But he needs reassurance now just as much as she did last night, and she'll give him all she can. He's part of her, enmeshed with her in a way impossible to ever extricate.

"Good." He exhales a deep breath. "I was going to send Rongar for a midwife today." He watches her quietly.

"No." She wraps a long, rail-thin arm around her belly. "She's there. I know she is. A midwife won't be able to tell you more than that, and the danger's too great. I shouldn't even be here."

"In my cabin? Probably not," he allows. "But anyone who looked at you would know you're not well, and this is the most comfortable place on the ship. It's reasonable that I'd bring an ailing crewmember in. Until you recover, I want you here."

He's reaching, justifying what he wants to himself, but Maeve knows better. Rumina won't like it, and if she thinks Maeve is showing signs of giving in to his advances, she won't hesitate to strike. "I want to be here. But it's not safe."

"That's what you told me last night." His hand rises, one finger gently brushing a stray lock of red-gold hair. "What got into you? Do you remember? You were so scared."

She shakes her head slowly. "I don't know. I just remember waking up, my own voice in my ears telling me to get out."

He frowns. "I've never heard such a thing. I've seen grief before—worse than yours, though not often. But never like that."

"Worse than mine?" Was she really that bad? She remembers the numbness that still somehow hurt worse than pain, living inside her body yet existing outside of it, divorced from her logical mind, her emotions. She has no idea what it looked like from his perspective.

"I've seen men tear themselves open because the blade hurt less than the loss of a brother, a wife. I've witnessed further east a practice where widowed women throw themselves on their husband's funeral pyre. Grief...does things to people."

She shudders softly and holds her belly under the blanket. "My people are gone, Sinbad." A soldier may mourn his fallen brother with blood, but he's never alone. Maeve is.

"No." He shakes his head. "Your people are right here. And we're not going anywhere."

* * *

_A/N: Next chapter is the darkest point in the whole story, just so you're aware. And no, we're not going to get to Samhain by Samhain, though I really wanted to! Maybe by US Thanksgiving. Thanks for reading!_


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Happy Halloween/Samhain/All Souls Night, etc, etc! I had hoped we would get to the battle with Scratch by today, but no such luck. We have, however, got to the nadir, so that's a milestone! Once more the disclaimer that a) this was planned from the beginning and foreshadowed from the beginning, and b) I DO promise a happy ending._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Uneasy peace shrouds the Nomad. Like a battlefield subjected to a temporary truce, the quiet is anything but tranquil. Sinbad's crew creep as they work, their shoulders hunched, bracing for the next round of conflict however it comes. There's no way to tell with so much magic involved in this war. Rumina acts on caprice while Scratch is more calculating, though he's not above indulging his own whims when they take him.

Doubar thinks the unholy duo may ensorcell a mob from the city to attack the ship, and wants to erect as many defenses as possible. Firouz doubts this is the case, questioning the purpose of such a maneuver, and Sinbad agrees. But calling any of Doubar's thoughts into question right now is unwise; Firouz's calm, measured argument received a roaring, furious response from the first mate. Sinbad is fed up with Doubar's touchy temper and almost ready to put him ashore for a while even though Maeve has never requested he do so. The only thing stopping him is fear of Doubar's response. He's afraid his brother, in desperation and fury, might cause some trouble he can't easily extricate himself from. Attalia is a friendly city but it does belong to the eastern Roman emperor, who has no love for the caliph. Sinbad has no wish to inadvertently start a war between Constantinople and Baghdad just for the sake of some quiet aboard his ship. He and Doubar have always looked out for each other—always. That bond, and fear for the brother who helped raise him, keeps Doubar aboard despite Sinbad's unease.

He does his best to temper that unease with more positive thoughts. Maeve lives. His daughter lives. These twin facts hold him together moment by moment, hour by hour. As long as they continue to be true, he swears he can handle whatever else comes along. He can take whatever Scratch and Rumina throw, so long as they focus on him as the target. Not his girls. His perspective on this war shifted so slowly he didn't realize it was happening until Maeve broke, his fear for her and the child she carries far outweighing any thoughts of his own soul. He's not fighting for himself any longer. He put the woman he loves in mortal danger for the sake of his own skin, and far worse, he created a new, vulnerable little life inside her and put that in danger, too. It was a foolishly reckless thing to do and one he doubts he would attempt again, at least with the benefit of hindsight. Cairpra did try to warn him. A magical protocol is a loophole, she said, and a double-edged sword, one that will cut both ways. He sees it now. Maeve may well survive to save his soul, but at what cost to them all meanwhile? When he sat silently with her through those darkest nights, watching her nightmares, unsure his daughter still lived, unsure Maeve would continue breathing, he would have far preferred Scratch just take his fucking soul and have done with it.

He feels slightly better now, but only slightly. Maeve is no longer on death's doorstep, but she and his daughter are not out of danger. He knows little of medicine and nothing of midwifery, but he has eyes and even an idiot could see that Maeve isn't well. But she's also the same obstinate, pigheaded sorceress she's always been. She left his bunk the day after she tried to run, cinched tight once more, rail-thin and shaking but resolute as stone, and refused all entreaties to go back to bed, to rest and recover. She often listens to Rongar these days when she won't listen to Sinbad, but she rejected his pleas and Firouz's, too. She can't shoulder her normal workload, her emaciated body lacking the strength for the physically heavy toil she used to undertake without a care, but she does what she can manage, setting her jaw and forcing herself in a way Sinbad knows isn't healthy. It can't be. He can't cite references like Firouz can, but he knows it anyway. Still Maeve ignores him.

She's strong, he tells himself for the millionth time. The strongest woman he's ever known. The constant reminder rings hollow when he sees her. She looks so frail, so sick. Nothing that Rumina has done since she sold his soul is forgivable, but what she's done to his sorceress goes beyond inexcusable. Maeve no longer looks like walking death, but she's close.

At least she's eating again, he tells himself, one small silver lining to this mess. Before Rumina's disastrous spell, the growing child in her belly made her queasy and unwell and she only ate at odd times, a mouthful here or there, subsisting mostly on her sister's herbal remedy. That seems to no longer be a problem—a slight worry lifted from his mind. She eats unenthusiastically but with a will, trying her best to feed her growing baby and regain what her body has lost at the same time, something Sinbad isn't sure is possible on a diet of only oat gruel, especially if she keeps forcing her body to work, pushing her limits instead of resting as Sinbad believes she should.

Being in port lessens their daily workload, which is a blessing for a man intent on keeping the woman he loves from literally working herself to death. Their time in port is usually split between upkeep on the ship, general carousing, and accidentally stumbling into adventures. He has no stomach for revelry and no energy for adventuring right now, and has to figure out how best to ensure the release of Talia's ship besides. He'd also gladly dispense with repairs and upkeep if doing so kept Maeve still, but it doesn't. She's sailed with them for nigh on two years; she knows what needs to be done. Hour by hour she tests out her body's new limits, a process he knows frustrates her. He can see her anger, her impatience with her own weakness as she struggles to work, and he hates both her physical pain and how unhappy she is, but he can't force her to rest and he doesn't know how else to help her. Eventually she'll get her strength back. The process will be long, but she's tough. She'll regain all she's lost. Now that she's thinking clearly again, her grief still with her but no longer overpowering, she can fight her way back to the fierce, powerful warrior he first met on the Isle of Dreams.

He just wishes she'd give herself a break first. She's visibly pregnant now, at least to his eyes, unable to entirely hide the thickening of her midsection on her otherwise bony frame no matter how tightly she cinches down. The official excuse that Rumina's spell had some unexpected side effect on her seems to have gone over so far. No one has verbally questioned it, anyway. Sinbad himself feels a sick mixture of rage and fear when he sees her cinched so tightly. That can't be comfortable—in fact, he's sure it's actually quite painful, but she refuses to admit it. He's also convinced it's bad for his growing baby to be constricted so tightly, unable to move and grow freely as she should. Whether it's actively dangerous and could harm or even kill his child he doesn't know, but he's afraid, which makes him angry.

Afraid and angry enough that, after three days of watching Maeve struggle, receiving nothing but terse, short rebuffs when he tries to speak to her, he's had enough. She can't keep all of this up. They have to come to some sort of agreement.

That night, after everyone has gone to bed, he crosses the black galley to her cabin. He wanted to keep her with him in his cabin after her collapse, wanted her to stay close where he could hold her, help her sleep if nothing else. But she refused, returning with halting steps to her own tiny bunk, her sliver of solitude, which worries him. He doesn't like her being alone, and maybe that's his own creeping paranoia talking, but he left her alone for the better part of a week after Rumina's spell and the results were catastrophic. She gets these thoughts in her head when she spends too much time alone, dark thoughts that eat away at her, and she's too fragile to tempt fate like that right now. So, though he understands her fear of discovery—or, at least, he thinks he does—he crosses to her anyway. He's trying to understand her but she doesn't seem to be doing the same, and he needs them to be on the same page.

Her cabin is silent when he enters, full of the soft scent of her skin, her books and spellcasting materials. It's gentle and familiar, calming to his frayed nerves. Dried herbs and incense, old books and warm skin. It's the scent he associates with her above all, above even the sweet heat of the _teas_, hot spice and female desire, or the soap she swiped from Omar's palace. He loves it, and will always love it, because it's her.

Two steps bring him to her side and he perches silently on the edge of her bunk, unable to see her in the darkness, listening instead to the soft sound of her sleeping breaths. She's breathing lightly, high in her chest, not low and deep in her belly like she ought. He knows the cadence of her deep sleep, a beat as slow and untroubled as his own sleeping heart, and this change in his ears is all the proof he needs that she's not sleeping well alone. He knew it before—she told him so. He's her _céile_ and this is part of the bargain; they don't sleep well alone anymore. They don't function well alone. He wants to revel in his ability to give her this, to be the safe harbor where she can rest, but she's unwilling to let him. He exhales a long, weary sigh and drops his head, skimming his lips, his nose, lightly along her warm cheek. They need a secret place they can go, a hideaway where Scratch can't spy, Rumina can't follow. An escape for both of them. He's never wanted to leave the sea before and he doesn't particularly want to now, but she needs safety and they need each other. He'd go anywhere with her, anywhere at all, if he knew it meant she was safe.

But there is no place like that, and no place for her to go alone, either, now that she's lost her northern family. And since there's no sanctuary for her, they need to stay together and work together. He and Rongar and Firouz will be her family, and Doubar once he gets his head out of his ass. They've all been family for a while. He thinks she knows that, but she's fiercely independent and not used to leaning on people. She's not used to needing to. He has to help her realize that she can still be her own tough, powerful self while sharing this burden and admitting to her pain. The protocol says he needs a female champion, but no one ever said she had to bear this burden alone. Rongar wants to help. Firouz, too. Hell, even Talia. They can't replace the family she's lost and Sinbad understands this, but she's not alone, no matter how desolate she feels right now. He has to help her understand that, and get her to ease up. She's going to hurt herself or their baby if she keeps pushing like this.

His hands move in the darkness, seeking the softness of her heavy cotton blanket, her sleek skin underneath. She usually sleeps in her thin undergarment or nothing at all, so he's surprised when his searching fingers find the coarser linen of her long, loose sleeve instead. His hand moves blindly in the darkness, up her poor, scrawny arm, feeling the touch of soft hide at her shoulder. He frowns and pulls gently at her blanket, afraid he already knows what he's going to find when he seeks her waist. And yes, his blind fingers bump over the thicker, harder leather of that cincher he's grown to hate so much, laced tightly around her middle.

She whines softly in her sleep, protesting the removal of her blanket, swimming toward wakefulness as he touches her.

"Maeve." He struggles to whisper, to keep his hands gentle on her skin. "Maeve, wake up." He felt guilty about disturbing her sleep, but not anymore. Not after finding her like this. He breathes his whisper of Gaelic against her skin but his hands paw urgently at the tight laces of her cincher.

"Who's there?" she hisses, waking with a jolt that jerks her poor body like a bolt of lightning. She strikes out in the darkness.

"Ow!" He rubs his nose where the back of her hand connected blindly with his face. "Quit that. It's me. _M__o chailín_, it's me." He exhales against her skin, letting her scent him. She inhales his breath and her fingertips trail lightly over his face, pausing to trace his lips. It feels exquisite and despite his anger his mouth parts, his tongue licking the pad of her index finger gently.

"Sinbad." Her stiff body relaxes as she recognizes him and the fear of an intruder fades. "Don't scare me like that. It's not funny." Her hand drops from his face, moving blindly along his arm to push his fumbling fingers away from her laces. "And stop that."

"No." He shakes off her hands, intent on loosening those laces. He came to talk with her during the only safe time he can touch her—the middle of the night. He wanted to parlay, to reassure her, to come to an agreement they can both live with about her workload, that damned leather. But that was before he found her sleeping in that restrictive cincher, and his irritation builds as she pries at his hands, pushing him firmly away and preventing him from loosening the lacing.

"Yes," she hisses, covering herself with her heavy blanket once more. "It's my body and I said stop!"

"How can you even sleep like that?" It has to be painful, considering how tight she's laced herself in, and he's positive it's not good for her or the baby.

"Not well." Her whisper conveys worlds of sleepy irritation. "And you just woke me up. Go away."

His nose aches where her blind backhand caught him, adding to his own frustration, and he ignores her order. "You can't keep doing this. Listen to me. It's not healthy for you, not safe for her. Please. I've tried to be patient, but I can't keep quiet anymore. I know you hate being told what to do, but you're hurting her."

"I'm keeping her alive!" she snarls, her whisper growing louder than it should as her anger ratchets higher. "How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know how Rumina doesn't know yet, but if she learns, I'm dead. We're dead, and you're lost. Do you really want that? Because it sure sounds like you do."

"Don't ask me that. Don't you dare." His own ire flares hotter, but he's always been better than her at controlling his impulses. He cups her thin face in his hands, pressing his forehead to hers. Her cheeks feel so delicate under his touch, her bones stark against his palms. He hates it. He wants to feed her full of the richest food this city has to offer, wants to wrap her in that damned blanket she loves so much and let her frail frame rest straight through to Samhain, but she won't let him do any of it. "Why are you fighting me?" he demands, needing answers almost as much as he needs this stubborn behavior to stop.

"Because you're not facing reality!" She pushes firmly at his shoulders, tearing herself out of his grasp.

"I'm facing it better than you are," he insists, ruthlessly forcing his voice to remain at a whisper despite his bubbling frustration, his growing fear. "Your strength is gone, yet you keep pushing yourself as if Rumina's spell never touched you. You lace up tight, trying to deny how much your child's grown. What you're doing is dangerous, and that's reality."

"No," she snaps. "Reality is that Rumina and Scratch, whether they're still working together or not, are always watching. Don't you dare try to tell me they're not. I thought we agreed ages ago that you'd quit trying to control everything. You know nothing about unborn babies, so butt out."

Sinbad inhales a deep breath into his abdomen, attempting to calm himself. Starting a shouting match with Maeve will only rouse the ship and potentially incur unwanted attention from their enemies. He shouldn't be here and he knows this. And yes, he did promise to butt out—multiple times, in fact. He knows nothing about pregnant women or unborn babies, and he freely admits it. But this is a step beyond what he can stomach. "I'm an idiot man, yes, we know that. You've said so plenty of times." She's professed to being nearly as ignorant, so he doesn't know why that matters. She relied on Keely to supply the knowledge she lacked, which turned out to be a poor choice. "This isn't about being an all-knowing midwife. It's about looking at you and knowing something's wrong. Squeezing her so tightly can't be healthy. It just can't. For either of you. How do you even breathe?"

"Lungs are up here, stupid." She raps her breastbone with her sharp knuckles. The hollow sound her bony chest makes in the darkness sickens him, and he wants to order her never to do that again. "You know that perfectly well."

"Call me stupid all you like, but what you're doing isn't good. How can you not see that? You need to let yourself rest, and you need to let her grow."

"And you need to stop telling me what to do!" she snarls. The amount of hostility she can pack into a whisper shocks him a little, though he guesses it shouldn't. She's never been good at hiding her feelings, though she's been forced to learn lately. "Rumina knows her spell did something to me. Fine. Let her gloat about some sort of side effect if it keeps her busy for a while. But if she starts wondering about specifics she's going to realize what's going on. She's a woman and unfortunately not an idiot. I have to be so careful, Sinbad." Her whisper falters. He hears her swallow tightly in the darkness and he wants so much to stop this pain, to do something—anything—to lessen this burden, but he can't. He can't because she won't let him. She's making him even more useless than he already is, and he can't stand it.

"How is pushing yourself nearly to collapse every day being careful?" He rests his hand on her bent knee, separated from her skin by her feather-filled blanket. He loves this woman so much, and he's so afraid she's going to do irreparable harm to herself or the child she carries, inadvertently causing the nightmare she's striving so hard to prevent.

"Rumina can't know," Maeve insists, implacable as stone. "I know the disguise isn't perfect, but I'm doing the best I can. I have to look and act as normal as possible. You think I enjoy this? It sucks, okay? But Rumina can't find out."

"It's dark. At least take it off at night." His hand shifts once more to her waist. He hates how tightly she's tied into that thing, and he can't help the dark fear that it's strangling his daughter, choking the life out of her.

"No." Maeve pulls out of his grasp. She's done so multiple times the past few days, though she never, ever has before. Every time, his heart constricts with a very tactile, physical pain. Does she feel it, too? Is breaking contact as difficult for her as it is for him? He wants to ask, but he doesn't have the words to explain how this feels. "I can't take any chances until Samhain," she says, a disembodied whisper in the darkness. "I can breathe then. Not before."

"And what if the two of you don't make it that long?" His whisper sounds incredibly bitter even in his own ears, and he winces in the dark. This is increasingly his fear, but he didn't mean to voice it so starkly. She doesn't need any more tension, any more guilt, especially from him. She carries enough already, and they're supposed to be partners now—a team.

Maeve flinches at his tone, his words. He hears the sharp rustle of straw as her body shifts. She exhales a swift, hard breath. "Then you'd better make sure you have enough wine in the hold to put Talia in a good mood." Her whisper is like ice, and he's not surprised when he hears her turn her back to him and lie down again.

He curses, a long string of expletives muttered under his breath, but it does nothing to relieve his temper, his fear. "Maeve," he pleads.

"Go away." He can hear the tears in her voice, more appalling than before. She cried the night she tried to run, but then he was there to lessen her pain. This time he's the cause.

"No. I'm sorry, but I don't think that's what a _céile_ is supposed to do and it's not something I'm capable of anymore."

"Yes, you are. Stand up and go back to bed. Your own bed, in your own cabin."

"No." He can't leave her while she's crying, can't leave her when he's made a mess of things so badly. He'd lie down right here beside her were there room, giving her the support of his presence without touching her, letting her choose to turn and accept it if she wants, but her bunk isn't big enough for that. "Maeve. Please." He doesn't even know what he's asking for anymore, but whatever it is, he'll beg if he has to. For her to stop crying. For her to be okay again. He doesn't need perfect—he's never needed perfect. But he can't take another collapse and he doubts she could withstand it.

"Your own cabin, Sinbad," she repeats. "Not mine." He can hear her tears in the shuddering quality of her shallow breaths. "You say yours is more comfortable anyway, so go."

"Everything I have is yours. Everything I am. You have to know that by now."

She inhales deeply. Where she puts that air with a baby compressed so tightly in her belly he doesn't know. "I do. And I love you. That won't ever change. But she comes first now. I have to protect her."

_Then let her breathe_, he wants to yell, but he forces the words down. He's so frustrated, so incredibly angry, and he desperately wants someone he can hit, someone who really, really deserves it. Antoine comes to mind. He'd love the opportunity to beat her brother bloody for what he did to her. Hell, he'd love to plant his fist in the middle of Scratch's ugly face and make it even uglier.

But maybe more even than someone to punch, he wants guidance. Dim-Dim. Or the next best thing—Cairpra. Maeve said ages ago that she wants to return to Basra, and Sinbad has every intention of granting that wish as soon as they're free of Attalia. He just doesn't know whether Maeve and his daughter can wait that long. He's terrified for their health, and this argument hasn't calmed his fears at all. Both he and Maeve want the same thing—to keep their daughter safe above all. But they have no safe place to retreat, and they disagree about the next safest option. He's worried for Maeve's health, their baby's health. She's terrified of Rumina. She has a point, he knows she does, but so does he, and she refuses to listen.

"Let me help you protect her," he says, attempting a different approach, touching her upturned hip lightly, hating the feel of her protruding bones under his hand. She doesn't have to do this alone. He wishes she could see that. He'll help in any way he can, and so will his men, but she has to be willing to let them.

"If you really want to help," she says, her whisper infinitely weary, "you'll stop doing this to me. This is my body. My life. My daughter. Do you hear me this time? I don't want to keep having the same argument over and over. The best thing you can do for us right now is leave me alone. Don't give Rumina and Scratch any more excuses to attack."

Her hand is firm as she pushes his palm from her hip and tucks herself tighter in her blanket, rolling further from him. For the first time, he's glad he can't see her in the darkness. She's crying, he knows she is. He can hear the way she inhales so tremulously and holds her breath, fighting the noises that try to erupt. He swears he can smell her tears, the bite of salt, liquid her body can't afford to lose. Wholly inappropriately, he feels the urge to bring her a drink of water. He wants to be her mattress, to let her curl on his chest as he cushions her from the hurts of this world. Most of all, he wants to hear her say that's _their_ daughter she's carrying, a child they made together, a child they'll share forever. Not just hers. Not a burden she has to shoulder alone. Yes, the onus is on her. He can't change that. Women carry and bear children, not men, and this threat on his soul requires a female champion to break. But she's running scared now, just as she was the night she literally tried to run, and not listening when he speaks to her, offers aid even in small ways. She can loosen her laces in the pitch dark and he can hold her, help her sleep. The danger of these things has not grown. But she's too afraid to do it.

So what can he do? He drops his head and presses a gentle kiss to her temple, smelling her tears and refusing to say so. He'll give her that shred of dignity if nothing else, since she won't accept anything more. "I love you, Maeve. I want to help. But you're right—you're in charge. I can't do anything unless you let me. I'll wait for you to ask, if that's what you want. I hate it, but there's nothing else I can do." His hand brushes lightly over her tangled curls and he inhales one last breath of her before rising. "All you have to do is call."

She's desperately pleading for space. That's the one thing he's not sure he's capable of giving her, but he'll try. For her sake, he'll try. And when she finally needs something else, he'll be waiting.

* * *

Sleep doesn't return. Maeve doesn't give in to tears easily and she hates herself for this failing, but she can't stop herself when the pressure inside grows too great and Sinbad adds his own on top of it. He doesn't mean to, she tries to tell herself. He's under as much pressure, and the captain in him wants so badly to control the situation, even though he can't. He doesn't understand what he's doing to her. She doesn't blame him for that. She has no words to explain the terror that's taken up residence in her body, a parasite she can't rid herself of. Her daughter is a beloved little stowaway but this fear is a parasite, sucking her energy and giving nothing back. All three inhabit her body and she's just not sure she has the power to keep them all alive through Samhain.

But what choice does she have? She can't banish this fear, and losing her baby means losing Sinbad, neither of which is an option. She refuses. Since she has no choice, she's going to fight the only way she knows how—by being strong. Rejecting all signs of weakness. To keep her Finleigh safe she has to hide her, so she's going to hide her as well as she possibly can. It's physically painful, and she knows that Sinbad's fears are valid, but so are hers and he hasn't taken them seriously from the beginning. He touches her when he shouldn't. His gaze lingers on her. Even Doubar, poor blind Doubar, knows his brother adores her. She hasn't kept up her side of this ruse particularly well, but she's done better than Sinbad.

His devotion would melt her if it didn't scare her so badly. She adores him, and she always wants to be near him, to feel his hands on her, the steady warmth of his body so close to hers. His concern and care are like water in the desert, a hearth in a storm. But she can't have them now. Every slip-up they make could have disastrous consequences and she's not willing to risk what little she has left for the brief comfort of a kiss. She needs him to understand. She loves him beyond words, but in order to keep him she has to keep him at bay.

Because it's not just him she's fighting for anymore. The child she carries needs her, too, and she's sworn to protect that life above all else. She created her. She will not let her down. Maeve's mother was not able to protect her children from danger, and Maeve refuses to repeat those mistakes. She will not be her mother.

But fuck, this feels awful. She's so tired, and she desperately wants to accept what Sinbad offers: peace, and rest, and the warmth that stems from their bond, his love. When she sleeps curled in his arms the fear inhabiting her body melts away. Nightmares cease to haunt her. It's like floating in a steaming hot spring or being wrapped in heavy quilts before a roaring fire, tranquil and soft, painless and deep. She wants it desperately, but not at the price of his soul, her daughter. So she fights as hard as she can, hides as well as she can. His excuses feel flimsy as milkweed now, and she loathes herself for giving in before. No one can see them in the dark, but what if something rouses the ship and they're caught together? Or she sleeps too long, something she can't control lately, and dawn finds her in the wrong bunk, uncinched? The risk felt negligible before, but not now. Not after Rumina's last spell.

Not now that she can feel her Finleigh moving inside her.

Maeve didn't recognize her daughter's first movements for what they were, assuming her beleaguered gut was playing tricks on her. Now she knows better, and her baby's movements have grown stronger in the days since Rumina's spell. Sometimes they're as light as the wings of a butterfly, sometimes firmer, little taps and nudges deep inside her. After the first shock of realization came an upwelling of conviction that she had to protect this little life, suddenly so urgently, beautifully real. Protect her from Scratch. From Rumina. From anyone who would try to do her harm.

She hates lacing so tightly, restricting her daughter's space and movement, and she apologizes to her every day for the rough treatment, promising things will get better if she can just hold on a little longer. She feeds her with as much food as her strangled and unhappy digestive system can stand, and with all the magic she can spare, little bits throughout the day, morsels of energy, of flame and life. Her Finleigh loves this, moving most energetically when they connect via this delicate bridge of magic, crumbs of power passed from one to the other, as much as she can possibly spare. Her daughter is hungry, she can feel, eager for food and magic both, twin sources that answer the same need. Keely would probably kill her for everything she's doing—for cinching down so tight, for giving her daughter so much when her own reserves are so low—but Keely isn't part of her life anymore, so it doesn't matter. All that matters is keeping the little soul inside her alive.

She rises before dawn, abandoning the attempt at sleep. She's beyond tired, but her emotions won't quiet enough to let her rest. Instead, she kindles a fire in the galley to cook her breakfast before the rest of the ship rises. The smell of food no longer bothers her, but Sinbad is adamant that she continue eating the last of the provisions from Breakwater, which they know are safe. This edict irritates Doubar, but everything irritates Doubar these days. Maeve agrees with Sinbad's caution, so she makes no fuss about continuing to eat apart. It keeps her out of Doubar's way during mealtimes, too, which is one less thing for her to worry about.

Like Sinbad, she worries about everything these days. Unlike him, she has the growing connection with her daughter to center her, to lend her soul strength when she falters. She wishes she could share that with him, gift him a bit of the resilience she's gained from this connection, but she doubts her ability to share the depth of this experience. He's a man and can't possibly understand how this feels, and while the proof of their child's strength may buoy him, the reminder that she'll soon make her entrance in this world, a daughter he never actively desired, will not. He worries for her because she's the key to his soul, feels responsible for her because he made her. That doesn't mean he feels, or wants, any deeper connection with his daughter. So this is something she experiences alone, both good and bad, the fear and the joy, as each day passes.

As Maeve cooks, she hears the soft sound of a door opening and feels the quiet presence of Rongar emerge into the galley. He squeezes her shoulder lightly as he passes behind her, a brief greeting. She smiles and dips her head in response. His steady, tolerant presence has been a godsend these past moons and she's more grateful for him than she'll ever be able to express. He holds up a line with a hook at the end and grins at her—he's up early to fish. Out on the sea most fish swim too deep to catch off the side of their ship but here in the shallower water near shore they teem.

"Good luck," she says, dropping a spoonful of honey in her steaming bowl. She almost wishes Doubar hadn't spoiled her nephews with quite so much honey while they were here. Her own belly is too confused by the changes in her body, the tight lacing and the growing baby, to know what it wants, but she thinks her daughter likes the sweetness. It's almost gone, and honey's something she's unlikely to get in the wild, which is how she'll have to find her food once the oats disappear. It's fine, she tells herself. She survived most of her life foraging, and at least she knows she won't be hanged for poaching. No way would Sinbad risk letting her hunt anywhere that might get her in trouble.

Rongar's smile fades as he glances at the door behind which Doubar's snores can faintly be heard. He points to it, then mimics lifting a jug to his lips.

"I know he was drinking last night. That doesn't bother me. It's when he does it during the day that I start to worry."

Rongar nods his agreement, his expressive face showing his own concern. He squeezes her shoulder once more and disappears up top. Doubar doesn't often indulge during the day, not to the extent of impairment, but the last couple of afternoons his speech has been slurred, his steps unsteady, his breath tellingly sour. No one, not even Sinbad, has the heart to rebuke him. Maeve certainly doesn't. It's not her place, and she feels a massive amount of guilt over him besides. She can't tell him the truth she knows would ease his anguish. He doesn't want a niece, but he wants his brother's soul safe. He's desperately trying to drown his fear the only way he knows how, and she refuses to fault him for it. Rumina took three moons of the six Sinbad was supposed to have until Samhain, and as far as Doubar knows, Sinbad's trusting the fate of his soul to Keely, the next thing to a stranger. It's better than nothing, but al-Alawy, that irritating scholar in Basra, told them very clearly that the bond creates the magic. From Doubar's perspective, that means Sinbad's chances aren't great. He needs a woman he knows better—he needs Maeve. And he has her, all of her, for as long as he can stand her, but Doubar doesn't know that. Maeve hates what that's doing to him.

But she can't fix it. She's tried dropping as many subtle hints as she dares, and he hasn't picked up on any of them. She will not sacrifice her child's safety for Doubar's peace of mind. Especially not when she knows he won't be happy with the byproduct of the Tam Lin Protocol—a half-barbarian girl, a niece from a woman he no longer considers family, if he ever did in the first place.

Still, _she_ considers _him_ family. He's Sinbad's blood, his only blood, and they've been through too much together for her to give up on him. Maybe she's wrong—it's happened before, loath as she is to admit it. Maybe Sinbad is right and Doubar will apologize once this mess is over, accept her daughter with open arms. Maybe they can salvage something of this mess after all.

But that's too far in the future for her to contemplate. Today, she knows, Doubar is on mess duty, and she doubts from the heavy sound of his snores that he'll be up anytime soon. She swallows a bite of her breakfast and fills the big pot with water to boil for everyone else's. Let him sleep. She's not a lot of help with the heavier physical work of a ship these days, but this much she can do.

"You're not on mess duty." Sinbad's voice sounds behind her. Her spine tenses. She hurt him last night, she knows she did, but she had no choice. She needs him to stop tempting her, stop the pressure to give in and touch him, be with him. It's too dangerous. After Samhain, if they all live through whatever Scratch demands of her, she will happily let him baby her as much as he wants. He can buy her the world if it makes him happy. He can place her in his bunk and forbid her to leave. She'll stay. She'll willingly sleep for a week—a moon. Demand the priciest foods in prodigious amounts—fresh meat, ripe fruit—and let him delight in granting her wishes. It's what he wants, and she'll gladly give it to him. After this is over. After his soul is safe.

Assuming she survives.

"I'm not on mess duty," she agrees, relighting the cooking fire with flints. She'd rather save her magic for her daughter than waste it on something so mundane. "But let him sleep."

Sinbad frowns at the closed door. "He's not doing well."

"No. But no one is these days." They just deal with it in different ways.

"He won't thank you for doing this for him."

"I know." He'll probably be angry that she did. It doesn't matter. She's not looking for gratitude. "Why are you up so early?" she asks, though she knows the answer. He didn't sleep after leaving her any more than she did.

He exhales slowly. She can see his chest move with his breath. Her tongue remembers the taste of his skin, and she wants it so desperately, wants to draw her body close to his and kiss the tense muscle of his jaw, whisper to him that she's sorry. She is, for so much. For his pain. She feels so guilty that she hurt him, but she's resolute. Her Fin needs her to be strong.

"I've been mulling over this impound problem," he says, very obviously choosing to play nice this morning, to drop their earlier arguments as she begged him to. She loves him all the more for it.

"Talia's ship," she says, happy to play along. He can't touch her, but they can talk so long as they keep to safe topics. If they can learn to coexist peacefully as just crewmates once more, maybe this can work. Maybe Rumina will leave them alone, at least until Samhain. She adds the morning's barley rations to the boiling water, grain purchased from a village she doesn't remember, obtained while she was still deeply in shock, both body and soul.

"Aye." He leans against the wall, worrying a hangnail with the tip of his thumb as he watches her add salt to the boiling pot in the cinders. "We're in a quandary."

"How so?" She didn't go with him yesterday to meet with the harbormaster and discuss Talia's ship. She honestly wasn't sure she could make the walk there and back, and she didn't want to embarrass both of them by falling. Sinbad also forbade Talia from going, stating—correctly—that her sharp tongue would just cause more problems. "Is the guy corrupt? A bully?"

"No. We could deal with a bully, no problem. I'd love a bully to hit right now, in fact, and I think everyone else would, too. It's been too long since we had an enemy we could actually fight." He grimaces. Poor man. He looks like he's aged far more than just the three moons Rumina took. It's the faintly gaunt, haggard quality to his face that makes him look older, she thinks. Why it's there, she doesn't know. No one else suffered any aftereffects of Rumina's spell. Except her, of course, but she knows exactly what the witch did to her. She doesn't know what she did to Sinbad.

"If he's not corrupt, what's the problem?"

"The harbormaster's a dedicated civil servant, probably the best employee the emperor ever had. That's the problem." Sinbad leans his head back against the wall. He looks so tired. Maeve can't give him rest, but she tosses him a dried fig from the provisions she can't eat. He catches it easily but doesn't eat. "He explained the process for retrieving Talia's ship very clearly, and produced a chart listing all the required fees. Firouz made some inquiries, added everything up, and assured me the man's being honest and the numbers are all above-board. But they're astronomical."

"They're what?"

"Sorry—that was Firouz's word. I don't know what it means. The fines are huge. Colossal. We have to pay Talia's original moorage fees and the taxes she skipped out of. Then the fine for the fortune-telling racket that got her kicked out of town in the first place. Did you know it was a crime in the empire to tell fortunes without proof of guild membership?"

"Yes," Maeve says calmly, stirring the cooking barley. "And the current guild-mistress takes that very seriously. She probably has the emperor in Constantinople by the throat to enforce those fines." She takes another bite of her breakfast.

"It might have been nice to know that going in." Sinbad bites into the fig in his hand. Maeve has never cared much about what she eats, but given the choice she thinks she'd rather have his dried fruit than her gluey oats. Or maybe that's her daughter talking. It's hard to tell when they're sharing the same stomach.

"Anyway," he says, "there's also the fee to get her ship out of impound, and the fine for non-payment of those taxes. All with exorbitant compound interest on top. Firouz assured me that the harbormaster's take on a transaction like this is minuscule. Most of that money goes straight to the emperor. The man's not cheating us. But the total's way, way beyond what I can manage without sailing to Baghdad or Basra and calling in what the caliph or sultan owe me, and leaving without Talia's ship will just rack up more interest." He scowls as he watches her stir the cooking food. "Go sit. You don't have to stand there while you eat." He chases her gently away from the fire.

Maeve chooses to let him, taking her bowl and mug to the table and sinking gratefully to the bench. Her cincher hurts more in this position but her legs and back ache when she stands still too long and she's grateful for the break. "You don't want to just break Talia's ship out?" she asks as she drinks her herbal brew. Keely's herbs will run out soon and she can't procure more, so she enjoys the sharp mint and sweet fennel while she has them.

"Part of the emperor's naval fleet is stationed here. I know the Nomad can outrun them, but I've never seen Talia's ship and I don't know how fast she is. I won't risk my people on a ship-break, especially not just to have it sunk by catapults and flaming arrows."

"Point." Maeve knows he'd love a chance for the action, though. They haven't seen any for a while, and he could use the chance to burn off some tension. Maybe she should make a quiet suggestion to Rongar or Talia to haul him to a tavern and pick a fight. It won't solve any problems, but he might feel better after. "Did you try name-dropping?"

"Aye. The caliph and Omar, and every minor king or queen we've ever done favors for. No good." He stirs the bubbling pot with impatience, no better a cook than she is. "The emperor is no friend of the caliph, as everyone knows, and he's not afraid of Omar, and none of it makes any difference to the harbormaster anyway." He swears softly. "What a time to find a diligent government employee."

"And you don't think he can be bribed?"

Sinbad shrugs lightly. "Most people can be bribed. It's a question of the right sort of leverage in the right place, and I don't know the man. I was never too good at equations, but I think Firouz would say that's too many unknown variables to solve for."

"I was never good at equations either, but I think you're right."

The galley door opens and Rongar emerges from the faint dawning morning with a triumphant face and a bucket. He sets it on the table and Maeve sees three large bream, already gutted and cleaned, floating in seawater. He lifts one by the gills and shakes the water from it before placing it in the coals of the fire. He points to Maeve and grins.

"Gladly." Warmth fills her. He's too sweet for her to deny. Not only has he caught food that she can eat, a welcome change from her usual oats, but he has enough for everyone so Doubar can't complain that she gets something the rest of them don't. She wishes she could do something for him in return, but if there's something her silent friend needs, she doesn't know it. She saw perfectly well the look he gave Nessa upon meeting her, but for a million reasons this is not something she can help him with. He'll have to be content with the salvation of his captain, unless she learns of something else she can do.

"Good man." Sinbad clasps Rongar's hand with brotherly warmth. Maeve is glad to see it. This is one family member she doesn't have to worry about losing. Rongar knows the truth and he's helping in whatever way he can. She's so very grateful. She smiles, genuinely smiles, as he sets the rest of the fish in the coals, the fresh smell of wet seawater meeting hot cinders swiftly filling the galley. If that doesn't wake Doubar, nothing will.

"What will you do about the harbormaster?" she asks Sinbad as Rongar sets the bucket aside.

"I don't know yet." He shoves his hair out of his eyes impatiently. He hasn't been wearing his headband lately but his hair is too long without it. "I thought about offering a trade—see if he would take the Nomad in place of Talia's ship. That would clear me of my debt to her, at least, and we could sail for Baghdad on her ship to retrieve the Nomad's impound price. But I just don't think I can do it. Talia'd be captain, not me, and I'm not sure I'm willing to trust her that far. Not right now."

"No," Maeve says, and Rongar shakes his head firmly, adamant in his agreement. "Talia's done...better than I expected. So far. But no."

"I know," Sinbad says. "I know. The Nomad's our home, but it's also how we make our living. With...the changes that are coming in a few moons, we can't lose that."

He means the baby. Maeve is grateful that he's thinking ahead. It's something she's not often capable of doing these days. She feels as if her world is going to end on Samhain, one way or another. If she wins, a better one will begin, a world where she can learn to breathe without fear again, where she can prepare to welcome her daughter with all the gentle care she can't provide right now. But not until she faces Scratch. That battle looms heavy in her mind, a wall past which she cannot often peer.

But she can't imagine preparing to give birth—hell, maybe even doing so—under Talia's captaincy. Just...no. She'll take orders from Sinbad or no one at all. She doesn't care where they live, a ship, rented rooms, a hole in the ground, but she can't imagine Sinbad anywhere but the Nomad, captain of his domain. He belongs here. She doesn't belong anywhere...except with him.

"Does this honest harbormaster have a wife?" she asks, chewing lightly on her lower lip as she thinks.

Sinbad shrugs, but Rongar nods and holds up the fourth finger on his left hand, tapping the space where a ring would sit.

"Huh. I didn't think that practice had spread much beyond Egypt." Maeve shrugs this off. She's never paid much attention to the jewelry men wear or what it signifies. "Give him my trunk. No matter how honest he is, he won't be able to resist taking that home to his wife. Not when the fees you'd otherwise pay will just line a filthy rich emperor's pockets. He'll justify it to himself—no one will miss one impounded ship."

"Are you sure?" Doubt laces Sinbad's brow. "I know you told me before to give those clothes to Talia, but I don't believe you were thinking clearly then."

Yeah, she doesn't think so, either. She doesn't even remember writing that note, though she can't deny the proof that she did. Nothing about that night makes sense to her, even now, except the calm she found in Sinbad's arms when she broke down and let him in. He's her _céile_. That makes sense. The rest of it does not.

But it doesn't matter, either. Whatever scared her so badly has passed, the fear morphing, evolving into this insidious thing that lives inside her as surely as her baby does. She can live with that—she has no choice—as long as it doesn't erupt into panic again. If she leaves the Nomad, she wants it to be a calculated decision made with forethought. She'll be breaking a vow to Sinbad if she leaves, and she desperately doesn't want to do that unless she has no viable alternative.

"I'm sure," she says, finishing the last of her herbal tea as Rongar flips the cooking fish. "I'm grateful to the queen, but it wasn't a practical gift. The boys got more use out of it than I ever have, or ever will. I don't need it. If bribing the harbormaster will free Talia's ship and our debt to her without risking a fight or the loss of the Nomad, do it."

"Thank you," he says softly, and his eyes show how much he means it. "Talia will thank you, too, in her own way, when she finds out."

"She'll only find out when she goes to swipe something and it's not there to take," Maeve grumbles, but her heart's not in it. Talia's annoying, but she's proved stalwart in this case. Whether that's a change in her nature or just her desire to get her ship back, Maeve doesn't care. She could have left them—probably _should_ have left them—after Rumina's spell stole three moons from her life, an unforgivable offense and a devastating price to pay simply for being on the Nomad. But she didn't. She's still here with them, and she seems intent to stick this out as she agreed. She does her best to lift Doubar's sinking spirits, too, and acts as a buffer between him and Maeve when she can, cushioning the blows of his worsening temper. That's worth a little silk, Maeve figures.

"We'll go to Malabar," Sinbad says, a wistful smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. "Just like I promised. Or Bengal. I'll get you some fine cotton. You like that better than silk anyway."

"I do," she agrees, wanting so badly to kiss him. Malabar was a throwaway comment, back when she was wishing for ginger. But he remembers, and he wants so badly to please her. "But I don't need anything," she adds, as, unaccountably, her eyes smart. She has no reason to cry now, and she blinks furiously, looking away and banishing the urge.

"You will," he says as Rongar slides the fish from the coals onto a wooden platter.

She won't, she thinks, but her baby will, and to Sinbad she guesses it must mean more or less the same thing. If he does find cotton for sale, she'll make her Fin a blanket like hers, but better suited to the fiery southern sun. Something lighter, but still sweetly soft to press against her delicate new skin.

But that's a dream for after Samhain, after she defends Sinbad's soul from Scratch's hairy, grasping fingers. She pushes it down, and feeds her daughter a scrap of magic in the meanwhile. The loss makes her slightly dizzy, but it also makes her baby move gently inside her, and that far outweighs the discomfort. She laughs lightly as Rongar passes her a plate heaped with flaky white fish, steaming hot, and places the bowl of salt on the table.

"If the rest of my crew doesn't get their lazy asses out of bed, they're going to miss breakfast," Sinbad calls, raising his voice as he removes the pot of barley gruel from the fire.

"Whose ass is in bed?" Talia demands, promptly opening her door. "I was just waiting for you to stop talking about me. That's never an easy entrance to make." She crosses the galley and hugs Maeve fiercely from behind. "Thanks, hothead."

"Don't touch me." Maeve shakes her off. "No one was talking about you. We were talking about your ship. Seriously, don't touch me."

"You like me." Talia laughs as she takes a bowl of barley from Sinbad and helps herself to the platter of steaming fish on the table. "Admit it."

"I tolerate you. You tolerate me. Let's leave it at that."

"I know, I know. I gotcha. You're not a touchy-feely type. Me neither, mostly. Until the wine's flowing." She knocks Rongar's shoulder with hers. "I lost last night's bet, huh? You got up in time to catch the early fish."

He nods and holds out his palm expectantly.

She sighs dramatically and digs a coin from the folds of her sash. "Remind me never to bet against you."

"I told you that last night," a sleep-bleary Firouz says as he stumbles into the galley.

"You also told me the sun is the center of the universe, not the earth, and we both know that's nonsense," she says, talking with her mouth full. Rongar bites the coin she gave him, shakes his head, and hands it back.

"Fine, have it your way." Digging this time in her cleavage, she hands him a different coin. He bites this and, satisfied, pockets it.

A litany of muttered curses precedes Doubar into the galley. He looks awful, eyes bloodshot, face drawn and weary under his grizzled beard. "Who cooked?" he demands, glaring at the steaming food as if it has insulted him.

"We all did," Sinbad says mildly before Maeve can open her mouth. She's used to fighting her own battles and she's not afraid of Doubar, but she'll let him take this one. Rongar's catch is excellent, her daughter is happy with the proffered food and magic, and she's not going to let Doubar spoil this moment.

The first mate grumbles as he slouches forward, and his dark, hungover glare settles on Maeve. "I thought she was too good to eat with the rest of us. What's she doing here?"

"Eating breakfast, just as she should." Sinbad stands behind her, his warm, steady presence lending her support though he respects her request not to touch her. "Exactly what you've been harping at her to do since she was poisoned, so stop growling and eat. Or go back to bed. Either way, stop. That's your captain speaking, not your brother."

Doubar's angry, bloodshot eyes settle on his brother for a long moment before he turns and slams back into the crew's cabin. Maeve flinches at the sound, her shoulders coming in contact with Sinbad's hard body for the briefest moment. She aches for the comfort it brings, but shifts away.

"I guess this is a good day to try my new hangover cure," Firouz says hesitantly.

Everyone smiles weakly.

"If anyone can invent a cure for what ails Doubar, it's you," Sinbad says. He steps away from Maeve, and she can feel the reluctance in him as he settles to a seat on the bench. She hates the distance, but she loves him for his willingness to give it. "I don't know if hangover herbs can fix this, though."

No, Maeve thinks as she returns to her breakfast. No herb that she's ever heard of will cure Doubar. She's the only one who can do that. If she loses her battle with Scratch, Doubar will be lost, too. Not just to her, but possibly to everyone. He'll never forgive her for failing, but just as horribly, he'll never forgive himself, either.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Sinbad feels more upbeat than he has for a long time. Not happy—he won't truly be happy until they defeat Scratch and Rumina and his fear for Maeve's safety calms. But, with the exception of Doubar's foul mood, the day has been a positive one. He and Maeve navigated a productive conversation without arguing, she neatly solved the problem of Talia's ship, and he watched her eat a decent meal surrounded by most of their family. It's encouraging. He still wishes she would rest instead of working, and she still looks awful, so delicate and frail, but the heavy cloak of sorrow she's worn since Antoine broke her is slowly lifting. This rending will leave a scar she'll wear for life, but with the help of the men who have become her family, she can learn to live with it. He knows she can. The coming addition to their family will help, too—a child she can love without fear, without restraint. He knows he's going to.

The harbormaster couldn't resist the sight of all that silk and velvet, cloth of gold and rich brocade, just as Maeve predicted. He tried, honest man that he is. He hemmed and hawed, insisted that he's never taken a bribe in his life, which Sinbad suspects is entirely possible. But he quickly caved, too taken with the prospect of bringing a queen's wardrobe home to his wife. And as Maeve rationalized, where's the harm? The emperor so far away in Constantinople will never know the difference. He doesn't need the fees, and Sinbad needs the time and money this will save. Maeve wants Cairpra, she said so ages ago, and Sinbad needs to fulfill this wish. It's the only thing she's asked of him besides the distance he struggles to give her, and he and the Nomad won't fail her. She can't have Dermott, can't have Keely or Antoine, but she can have her mentor. He's sure Cairpra's calm, knowing manner will ease the disquiet he knows still lurks in her soul.

Whatever broke the terrifying shroud of grief she wore for the better part of a week, lying torpid in her bunk, unresponsive to everything, he wants to be grateful. But the memory of her fear that night prevents his complete thanksgiving. She was panicked past rational thought and he knows in his heart she would have died if she successfully left his ship. She had no more strength than a butterfly and was in no shape to wander an unfamiliar city. She could have broken bones trying to swing from his ship, or fell into the water, or simply collapsed somewhere, out of strength and unable to rise. Exactly what scared her into flight he doesn't know, because she can't explain. Her mind was too muddled to comprehend what she was doing, he suspects, and too exhausted to understand how dangerous her actions truly were. It troubles him, sending a shiver of unease down his spine. His Maeve is resilient, canny and artful. She doesn't panic easily, and she doesn't usually act so recklessly. A voice inside told her to go, she said, and so she went. Sinbad doesn't like it.

But he's seen no sign of the panic returning, so he does his best to banish his unease. It's been a good day. Talia and Rongar are even now off to fetch her ship from the government piers and he stands in the afternoon sun on the deck of the Nomad, about to replace some of the worn-out rigging with Firouz's help.

Maeve emerges from below, shielding her eyes from the intense glare of the relentless sun, smiling a little as its warmth touches her skin. With no meat on her poor bones she gets cold swifter, he's noticed. He's happy to have her on deck where he can see her, so long as she doesn't make herself sunsick. He's sure she'd recover quicker if she took off that gods-be-damned leather, returned to his bunk at night where she can sleep deeply, and allowed herself to rest while she heals, but these are battles he's fought and lost, some repeatedly. He needs to stop fighting her, because fighting doesn't work. Instead, he needs to figure out how to work with her.

He saw Doubar briefly around midday but hasn't been below since and is just as happy not to get in his brother's way. Maeve is fighting her way back to health, however slowly, while Doubar sinks under a crushing shroud of his own emotions, his anger and fear. He's been desperate for someone to blame from the first, and Maeve became the easiest and most obvious target. Now that Rumina's spell has cut the time to Samhain in half, he's angrier than ever. Sinbad has almost reached his breaking point. He understands how his brother feels. He does. Doubar helped raise him, made incredible sacrifices for him. He would have been just as happy, maybe happier, remaining in Baghdad with Dim-Dim, perhaps becoming a trader or innkeeper. He can picture Doubar as a jovial, round master of his own tavern, swapping news and gossip with his customers, a wife just as round laughing as she delivers steaming bowls of food and he clears the tables. But Sinbad chose the sea. Doubar came with him, and the chance at that life was gone. As far as he knows, his brother has no regrets. But those sacrifices will be meaningless if Scratch succeeds in stealing Sinbad's soul, leaving Doubar alone. Doubar has seldom been alone in his life and he doesn't handle it well. Sinbad doesn't fear for Rongar or Firouz nearly as much as he fears for Doubar if Scratch wins. They're resourceful. They know how to survive. But Doubar, Doubar needs a brother. Or a captain. Or a wife. Someone to give his life purpose and aim. Someone to steer him gently back on course when he drifts, as he's drifting now, lost to all but his own grief.

Sinbad wants to be that for him, as he's been for most of their lives, but he struggles. Doubar is so very angry and he's decided Maeve is the locus of his ire. Sinbad hasn't tolerated that well from the beginning and now that she's so fragile he tolerates it even less. He's a breath from putting his brother ashore despite Doubar's own fragile state. Maeve will never ask him to, but everyone has limits and Sinbad doesn't know where hers are. Too near, he knows that much. She's delicate, body and soul, so newly healing after both were devastated. She herself may not even know how much more she can take. She's afraid the strain between herself and Doubar has grown too great to mend, and that Doubar won't want his niece, besides. Her first concern is entirely valid, no matter how much Sinbad hates admitting this. He'll never tell her so, because her insecurities need no reinforcement, but he shares the same worry. Doubar doesn't tend to hold grudges, but he'll feel humiliated at his own foolishness once he learns the truth, which will only translate into further resentment. This isn't something Sinbad can fix, though he hopes that after Samhain some honest conversations will help.

Maeve's second worry is harder for him to fathom. Yes, boys are far preferred over girls generally speaking. He's not idiot enough to argue that fact. But this isn't just any girl. This is his daughter. The child who's going to save his soul, the thing Doubar wants most in the world. Even if she wasn't Sinbad's savior, she's still Doubar's niece. His blood, his kin. They've been orphaned brothers for most of their lives, the only blood tie they each have. Doubar will be overjoyed for this to change, for any addition to the family. Sinbad knows it. He'll adore his niece; he's not capable of doing otherwise.

Sinbad's own feelings on the subject have changed drastically in a few short moons. He was so sure he didn't want any children, and then when Scratch and Rumina forced this choice, he admits he pictured himself with a son. He knows boys—knows them better than girls, at least. But he always knew, as Doubar stubbornly refuses to admit, that a daughter was equally likely. After spending time with Niall and Antoine and their children he no longer fears the prospect of a baby nearly so much. Antoine adores his daughters. Niall wants one enough that he and Wren are willing to keep adding to their brood. And with Maeve for a mother, Sinbad knows his daughter will be something special. She'll be a fighter, stubborn and fierce, probably hell to raise, and he's all in. He used to believe that being bonded with a woman, creating a family, would tie him down. Restrict his freedom. Now he knows better. He just needed the right woman, one with a spirit that can fly with his. Raising his daughter on the sea, with the help of the rest of their family, will be the greatest adventure he's ever undertaken.

Assuming she survives. Assuming they all survive. It's something he has to constantly remind himself, the bitterness of this truth. Most expectant fathers only have the birth itself to fear, the ordeal so many women and babies don't survive. He has so much more to fear, and so much more to lose. Not just Maeve. Not just his daughter. Not just his soul, either, but the ripple effect losing it will create among the people he loves. Maeve and Doubar. Rongar and Firouz. Talia. Dim-Dim and Cairpra. His far-flung friends and allies. So many people will be hurt if he loses his soul, and he still doesn't know what dark purpose Scratch intends. There's too much at stake for them to fail.

These fears lead his eyes, as they always do, directly to Maeve. She looks like the lightest breeze might knock her down, and he hates it. He wants her strong and proud, full of her own quicksilver energy and grace. He wants the wicked glint back in her sweet eyes, the way her full, lovely mouth curls playfully as she teases him, daring him to call her out for her impudence, knowing he never will. Knowing he loves it, just as he loves all of her. He aches to see the life return to her, the light of her spirit, beautiful and indomitable once more.

She turns, feeling the weight of his eyes, watching as he and Firouz wind coils of heavy hemp around their bodies in preparation for the climb to the top of the rigging. Instead of the impish smirk he loves so much, the corners of her sweet mouth turn down in a tight frown. "I climb faster than Firouz does."

"Usually," Sinbad agrees. She's faster and more agile out on the lines than most men, yet has the upper body strength many women lack. "Not today." There's no way he's letting her climb. Not while she's carrying his child, and especially not after Rumina's spell. Besides, she looks as if a single loop of rope would crush her.

"I would advise against climbing in your condition," Firouz says, and once again Sinbad has to wonder how much he knows, whether that's a reference to the child she carries or merely her physical weakness.

She scowls but refuses to snap at the inventor. Sinbad remembers his decision from this morning—he has to learn to work with her instead of fighting. He learned to do so when she first joined the crew, and he has to do it again now. They're unstoppable when they work together, but when they butt heads all they do is tear each other apart. He can't afford that.

"The mainsail needs mending," he says, nodding to the tightly rolled canvas on the deck. "It has for weeks. I wasn't going to ask you because the canvas is so heavy and you hate sewing."

"I hate sewing," she agrees, "and Firouz is better at it than me. But that stupid sail isn't too heavy, and if that's all I'm good for I can do it."

A wave of relief washes over him. Good. This job will take time, and while she'll have to unroll and shift the unwieldy sail to get at the tears, the actual mending she can do sitting down. It should take her the rest of the day and a good portion of tomorrow, too, which he's perfectly content with.

"It's no great skill," Firouz says, shrugging into another coil of rope. "Just all the practice perfecting my surgical techniques. I began with linen, continued on goat and sheep carcasses."

Maeve smiles at him. "I bet the butchers were happy to see you coming."

"Point of fact, they were. I happily took the, ah, least choice bits. Lower legs and hooves, often. Anything with skin still attached, really. The bits customers looking for a meal didn't always want."

"Don't talk about meals. It's not close to dark yet, but I'm already hungry."

Sinbad has to restrain himself from touching her. She's asked him not to, but it's not easy. "Go on below," he says, guiding her with an arm near her lower back without making contact. "Eat something, and you'll have to search for the right tools. I have metal needles, an awl, sailmaker's thread, and wax somewhere, probably in my cabin, but I can't remember."

"Aye, captain," she says, only slightly grudging. "I know exactly what you're doing, by the way. You're not fooling anyone."

He grins. "I never doubted you for a second." They're working together—each giving a little. That's all he wants.

She goes below, and he hopes she listens to him about eating. Her body desperately needs it, and he's already given her permission to eat when she pleases. If that's five times a day, or eight, or more, that's fine. Anything to put some meat back on her bones.

"Ahoy!" a female voice calls, and he lumbers to the railing, encumbered by loops of heavy rope. He stares at the vessel slowly pulling alongside the Nomad.

"Would you like to explain to me what that dinghy is doing at a proper moorage?" he demands, his voice booming out over the water.

"Don't you insult my ship, you rusty old sea dog!" Talia laughs as she guides the vessel softly alongside his. Rongar leaps to the dock with a coil of line to secure her, shrugging helplessly at his captain. "The Silver Serpent's just as good as your Nomad, and I bet faster besides."

Sinbad looks doubtfully at the little ship. She's wickedly thin and sleekly built, and he suspects Talia's correct about speed. But she's small, capable of holding maybe half of what the Nomad can, and his ship isn't a particularly large one. He guesses that's best for a pirate who doesn't tend to haul full shipments of merchant cargo, but he can't help ribbing her as she stands proud on the slim deck.

"I think we overpaid for that thing."

"Shut it, Sinbad!" she crows, undaunted by his teasing, visibly joyful as she inspects her own vessel once more. "You're just lucky I didn't have a huge ship that dwarfed the Nomad. This way we can daisy-chain her to your ship when we leave without any trouble."

"You're still coming with us?" That honestly kind of surprises him. She was spitting mad after Rumina's spell took three moons from them, as she had every right to be. It's not like Talia to continue to risk her skin after she already has her prize.

"Of course, you idiot! What did you think, I'd leave you high and dry? You need me. Besides, I need to see how this turns out. I have several wagers going."

Sinbad chuckles and shakes his head as he and Firouz start to climb.

"I wonder if she's betting for or against us?" Firouz heaves himself up with a grunt.

"Probably both, knowing Talia," Sinbad chuckles. She's been a good ally on this journey—mostly. He wonders if anyone has ever truly counted on her before, needed her before. Maybe the ability to help someone who needs it brings out the best in her, even if that person is Maeve, who she doesn't particularly like. Then again, maybe she does just have some big bets placed and wants to ensure she tips the outcome in her coin's favor.

"I suppose that would be the intelligent option," Firouz allows. "But Talia's never been known for acting prudently."

"Ah, no. I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word." Sinbad rises swiftly through the rigging, faster than his comrade. Maeve was right that she and Firouz would ordinarily be better suited to swapping their tasks today. She's probably not physically stronger than him in terms of sheer brute strength, but she's swifter, more agile, and better at manipulating her body to do what she wants. Firouz isn't clumsy, exactly, but he lacks her level of grace and coordination.

Usually. But today is different, as all days will be different until she regains what she's lost, what Rumina took from her. Sinbad knows she can, even as she pushes herself too hard, thereby extending the time it will take. She has a fierce, beautiful resilience, strength in her heart Rumina can't touch no matter how hard she tries. Antoine damaged it, but he didn't break her. Not completely. Sinbad allows a small smile to touch his mouth as he turns his attention back to the climb. His sorceress is strong. She can do this.

* * *

Maeve leaves Sinbad's cabin tired and irritable. At least she's no longer hungry, having swallowed some leftover cooked oats before going in search of Sinbad's sail-mending kit, which she has yet to find. A deep search of his cabin turned up nothing useful, and though she knows better, her bad mood is making her think he sent her purposefully to find something he knew wasn't there, keeping her busy without taxing her strength. She knows Sinbad wouldn't actually do it, but she's tired, her body hurts, and she's irritable enough to entertain the thought at least for a moment as she steps from his cabin and latches the door behind her.

"What the devil were you doing in there?"

Maeve's head snaps up, a jolt of surprise taking her. Yes, there's Doubar, sprawled on a bench near the maps. His face is red, even in the shadows, and a quick glance reveals the nearly empty glass bottle at his side.

"Where did you get that?" She thought he and Talia were done with whiskey after their first taste. They complained about their heads and bellies for days, anyway.

He ignores her question, rising slowly to his feet and belching. She can smell the reek of whiskey from here and it irritates her further. He can drown his sorrows all he wants for all she cares, especially if it keeps him from harassing her, but it's not quitting time yet. Has he even done anything today? The sun still shines bright, and there's work to do. Even now Sinbad and Firouz are probably up at the top of the mast as they replace some of the worn-out rigging.

She frowns at the first mate as he sways with the motion of the ship. The smell of whiskey used to bother her when she was small, hazy memories of her father lurking in the shadows of her mind, brought to light by the bite of strong alcohol on male breath. The scholars at Brí Leith cured her fear, inuring her to the smell, and it no longer causes distress. The memories still come—his rage, her last moments with her mother—but they haven't swallowed her since she was small. Looking at Doubar's bloodshot eyes, she pities him more than anything.

"What were you doing in Sinbad's cabin?" he demands, apparently still able to keep his thoughts straight despite the whiskey on his breath. He moves toward her on reasonably steady feet, glowering. "You don't belong in there."

"Looking for something. Leave me alone." She scowls. Doubar is not her captain and she owes him no explanations for her whereabouts. He needs to go topside, to get some fresh air and sunshine, not hide away in the dark drinking whiskey his belly isn't used to. Maeve herself needs to sit for a moment. She's been moving around Sinbad's cabin, bending and stretching, searching for his damn tools, and her body needs a rest, some water. Her back aches, her feet ache, and she's dizzy enough that she knows she needs to stop. She tires easily these days, whether from the baby in her belly or the aftereffects of Rumina's spell, and she knows she has to be careful. As careful as she can be without raising suspicion.

"What do you want from him now?" Doubar demands. "Helping Scratch steal his soul isn't enough for you? You want his things, too? And you accuse Talia of being a thief!"

"Talia is a thief," she says flatly, doing her best to ignore his accusations. He's usually a happy drunk, but apparently not today. "She admits it. Get out of my way."

"No." He stumps closer, thrusting his shoulders back and raising his chin in a gesture she's very familiar with—an angry man drawing a line. "Give it back. Whatever you just stole, give it back." He holds out his hand impatiently.

"I didn't take anything!" she snaps, her own anger kindling. She's not a thief. Even when she was young and starving, she didn't steal. Dermott taught her better than that. And she especially wouldn't steal from Sinbad—she doesn't have to. He'd give her anything she wanted for the asking. He'd love the chance.

"Liar!" Doubar roars back, and the whiskey fumes on his breath wash over her, bitter and strong. She stands firm. "Sinbad may let you walk all over him, but I still outrank you and I've had enough of this. Give me whatever you took!"

"I took nothing," she says, crossing her arms defensively over her chest and refusing to give ground. The only thing she has of Sinbad's currently on her person is her baby, and that was given more than willingly. A headache begins, sharp knives of pain at the base of her skull, squeezing her temples, warning her that she needs to sit. She needs water. She's nearly blacked out several times lately and she's afraid of what a fall might do to her baby. Inhaling slowly, she tries to think around the pain in her head. Fighting with Doubar gets her nowhere. The best option is to let him blow up and leave, as he always does. This is not something she's good at, but lately she's been getting plenty of practice.

"I don't believe you. You don't belong in there. That's the captain's quarters," he insists. "He'd have given them to you—he would have given you everything he has, everything in the world, if you'd just agreed to bear him a son, but you refused. So now you keep your grubby little hands out of there!" He grabs at her folded arms, shaking them free. Her dizziness swells, but he lets go as soon as she shows him her empty palms. She has nothing, took nothing, just as she said.

"See?" she demands, shaking him off. Despite her anger, for the very first time she begins to feel a hint of fear as she looks at him. She's never—_never_—been afraid of Doubar before. He's never given her reason to.

It's just the whiskey, she tells herself. Just the smell of the alcohol, the way his glassy eyes squint at her. A memory of her father, nothing more, her mind doing things to her that it hasn't done for a very long time.

"Sinbad asked me to look for something," she says, snarling back at him as viciously as he snarls at her. Doubar is huge and strong, yes, drunk and angry, but she refuses to back down, refuses to be afraid of him. He's bullying her with his body, his size, and she does not give in to bullies. "It's none of your business, so get out of my way!"

"No." He inches closer, so close she has to tilt her head back to look him in the eye, which she hates. "You are a member of this crew, not his wife, and as first mate I say you don't have permission to be in there."

"Fuck you," she spits before she can stop herself. That wasn't smart. She's done her best these past moons to placate him, to treat him gently, and she's done now. She doesn't have the patience for it anymore. He's the first mate, yes, but he hasn't tried to pull rank on her in a very long time and even then she didn't put up with it. She refuses to do so now.

His bloodshot eyes blaze and his hand snaps out, quicker than she expects considering the amount of whiskey in him. She tries to shield herself from a blow, but to her surprise he grabs her ear, yanking hard.

"Quit that!" She shoves his hand away but he spins her roughly, a meaty hand rubbing roughly down her bony back. She spins back around and shoves, managing to push him back a half step despite the growing dizziness in her head, the shakiness flowing down her limbs. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Human ears," he says, narrow eyes watching her as she pants lightly. "No hidden wings. You're not one of those things you brought on board the ship."

Her anger erupts into true rage. "How dare you? You know that fucking whiskey you're drinking was made by one of those _things,_ right? That they've been keeping us fed?"

"All for you! Because of you! We wouldn't have to be beholden to anyone, except Rumina poisoned _you_. Why that had to affect the rest of us I don't know, because Sinbad refused to say! He won't tell me anything anymore—not who those people were on our ship, not why Rumina keeps targeting you! He's not the same person he was, and it's all your fault!"

Maeve blinks back tears born of both anger and desperate guilt. She's dizzy and her headache is getting worse, warning her that her body is nearing its limit. Doubar doesn't know what he's saying, but his words hit home anyway. Sinbad isn't the same person he was before that brand appeared on his chest, a sign of Scratch's ownership. He's not so carefree anymore, definitely not as happy.

_Your fault_, her own voice whispers in her mind, the whisper that's haunted her since Rumina's spell. _He never wanted to be tied down._

She doesn't want to tie him down. She _doesn't_. That's not how this has to go. She's a wanderer. He's a wanderer. Doesn't that mean they can make this work?

"You have no idea what you're talking about," she says, gritting the words through a tense jaw aching just as badly as her temples, "so keep your mouth shut."

His bloodshot eyes blaze, and she knows she's touched a raw nerve. Doubar hates being reminded that he's not the brightest, and this is ordinarily not something she would willingly prod. But her head is too painful, too dizzy, to think completely clearly, and all she wants to do is just sit, just for a moment, in a place free of whiskey fumes, free of shouting. "Wench! I'm sick of you prancing about this place as if you own it, as if the rules don't apply to you. Guess what? They do! Any other captain would have flogged you raw by now for the sort of impudence you show."

Maeve hates being called a wench, as he well knows. She smiles grimly, a cold twist of her mouth that reminds her of Nessa at her nastiest. "Sinbad isn't that sort of captain. I wouldn't be here if he was. Let me pass."

His breath gusts from his nose and he lurches forward, putting their bodies nearly in contact again, blocking her exit. "He's not, but you need a heavier hand to learn how to behave, I can see that well enough. Your father failed at that job."

Her gut churns. Countless men have made similar claims about her behavior before, stating that a good beating would calm her fire and bring her in line, but never a man she's cared so much for. And any mention of her father is enough to boil her blood, regardless. She clenches her fists and struggles to remain still. "I never had a father."

"Figures. I'd say Sinbad was lucky not to have a son with your blood, if he didn't need it so badly." His eyes narrow. "He might even have married you despite my warning, if you had been willing. Poor man. Usually it's the fathers forcing a reluctant husband, not the literal devil."

"Celts don't marry." It's rote by now—automatic. Also the safest response she can think of. Sinbad isn't getting a son with her fiery blood, he's getting a daughter, and Maeve knows exactly what Doubar would say about that. She doesn't care. That unwanted daughter is going to save Sinbad's soul...if Maeve can keep her alive.

"Celts don't marry, Celts don't marry," Doubar mocks, exhaling a gust of whiskey fumes in her face. "As if anyone would want to! You've got my brother bewitched somehow, I see it now. Like Rumina wants to. You wenches are all the same! That's why he's so changed. He's never wanted a girl to keep, not after Leah. What did you do to him?"

His roaring suspicions make Maeve blink, speechless with shock. She'd never, never even consider doing what he's suggesting. She wouldn't know how. Love spells, real ones, are compulsions, advanced dark magic only practiced by the blackest sorcerers. They're cages meant to be locked for life, which she considers about the worst thing any person could do to another. No. She's not like Rumina. She doesn't want to trap anyone.

_Don't you?_ the whisper in her mind hisses at her, dark and insidious. _You bound him to you. Your _céile_ for life._

No. That wasn't her fault. It was, but it wasn't. And it's not the same thing. He's free to go if he chooses. He can leave her. She didn't take away his choice.

_But he'll never be the same if he does._

"No," she says softly as the whisper and the dizziness in her head bleed together, blending to form a strange floating sensation that's somehow a sound and a bodily sensation, jolting her nerve endings, making her hands and feet tingle as her body warns her she's close to collapse. Her voice falters. "I didn't."

Doubar's eyes blaze as he interprets her hesitation as guilt. "You did! And there was no need. You could have had anything you wanted from him in return for a big belly. Instead you've brought ruin on us all. Why?" He leans over her, and for the first time Maeve shrinks back from him. She's not afraid for herself, she insists stubbornly. But the child she carries is so vitally important, and too much has already happened to her while she shares Maeve's body. Rumina poisoned them, then stole three moons from them, speeding her growth, the effects of which Maeve won't know until she's born. Now she's forced to cinch tightly, restricting her daughter's growth even as she does her best to compensate by feeding her with food and magic, everything else she can give. This little life must be protected, for all their sakes.

But Doubar doesn't know that.

She steps back, flinching from the way he hulks over her, his bulk seeming bigger than ever as he deliberately attempts to intimidate her. She's never felt her recent weakness so acutely. "Stop it," she says, knowing he won't, not until his fury has crested. She needs to get away, needs to get topside where she has escape routes, where Sinbad can deal with his brother's anger. She's never turned Doubar over to his brother before, but this encounter has grown too dangerous to handle on her own. "I haven't done anything to Sinbad," she says, forcing her voice to steady. "I never would. You'd know that if all that whiskey wasn't talking for you right now."

"All you had to do was shut that fucking mouth and open your legs for once, but no, that was too much for you," he spits.

Her hand rises automatically to slap his face, but she forces herself to stop before it connects. What's left of her logical mind knows not to antagonize him further, no matter how angry she is. She will not win that fight, not now. She can barely stand. So, with monumental effort, she reins in the urge.

But the damage is done. He sees the movement of her arm and his meaty hand grabs it roughly, his fingers and thumb overlapping around her bony upper arm. His grip is crushing; she's afraid he'll snap her bone like a twig and when she tries she can't shake him free. The sliver of fear in her stomach expands, dripping like poison into her bloodstream, racing through her body as her heart speeds, thrumming far too fast.

"Sinbad's done everything for you!" he roars, holding her tight. "Took you on when Dim-Dim vanished, saved your sorry skin who knows how many times, and you couldn't give him this? But you could bespell him, of course. What else would a woman aboard a ship want?"

"Doubar, let go," she says, dropping her voice low, ruthlessly smothering her own anger, her growing fear. Yelling at him won't help. She needs him to let go, needs to break away until his anger cools. She needs Sinbad. Rongar, Talia—anyone will do, anyone who can break his concentration and make him let go. He could seriously hurt her daughter, and the force of that realization stuns her. For all she swore never to become her mother, suddenly she has. She's in the same situation, fighting an angry man with too much whiskey on his breath, desperately trying to keep him from harming her child. For all her struggles and all her vows, she ended up the weak woman she swore she would never be—the mother who could not protect her daughter.

This thought shatters her, but at the same time stiffens her spine. No. She refuses. She pushes the dizziness away, locking her knees and forcing her muscles to steady. She's been led to this point by circumstance, sometimes willingly, sometimes unwillingly, but she refuses to be a victim. She refuses to let her daughter pay this price. She inhales deeply and continues as calmly as she can. "Doubar, let go. You don't know what you're saying. You don't know what you're doing." She looks him in the eye, refusing to be cowed. "Walk away before you do something you'll regret later."

But her words stoke the fire of his self-doubt and the color in his cheeks deepens, no longer red but nearly purple. He grabs her other arm and shakes her hard. Her headache explodes and her teeth crack together, sending lances of pain shooting down her spine. "I know better than some barbarian witch! You don't care about my brother! You don't care about anything but your own heathen self!"

The door to the galley slams open. Maeve sags in relief. Her head swims and her vision refuses to clear, but she's fairly sure she sees Rongar and hears Talia.

"What's going on?" the pirate demands. "Doubar, what do you think you're doing?"

Rongar stops short and his arm shoots out, blocking Talia's path as she tries to stride toward the first mate. His body lowers into a defensive stance as he eyes the situation cautiously.

Maeve meets his eyes for a moment, though it's difficult to focus after that shake. Her fear is real now. She can smell it, taste it on her breath as she pants lightly, shallow breaths high in her throat. Cold sweat hits her forehead. This isn't good for her baby and she needs Doubar to stop, but Rongar is right to pause. There's no telling what the first mate might do now. He's drunk and lost his temper and now he's been caught. A cornered man is desperate. Rongar needs to be careful how he handles him, lest he cause more harm. Where is Sinbad? Still up in the rigging with Firouz? She needs him. Doubar will yield to Sinbad though he won't to Rongar or Talia. Rongar's eyes tell her he knows this—if he tries to intervene now, he'll make the situation worse. They need Sinbad.

"Let go," Maeve says again. There's a strange roaring, rushing sound in her ears. She doesn't even recognize her own voice.

"Yeah, big guy, let go," Talia says, attempting to plaster a friendly veneer on a cautious center. Her eyes tell the truth. "Come up top. Looks to me like you need some fresh air, and at least a gallon of water."

"What I need," Doubar growls, "are some answers, and for this traitor to leave my brother in peace!" He emphasizes his words with another shake that rattles her bones.

"You don't understand," Maeve insists. The decision to hide her child was a catastrophic one, she realizes now. But what else could she do? She was trying from the start to protect her. She still is. But the attempt made an enemy of Sinbad's brother, a very big, very strong man currently pinning her by the arms and refusing to let her go. Her bones ache. She's not even angry anymore. Now she's just scared. This is how her mother died, and she can't let that history repeat itself. Not while her daughter needs her to live.

"You shut your lying mouth!" He releases one of her arms only to backhand her face hard. She tastes blood as she staggers. She's been slapped for her sharp tongue more times than she cares to remember, but she's never gone down before. This time she does, and he finally releases her as he lets her drop, crumpling to the floor. She pants lightly as her mind races, blank terror threatening to take her. She can't do this. She wants to fight, but Rumina took too much from her. She has no muscle left to defend herself. "All you've done from the beginning is lie, and hide, and confuse us!" Doubar roars.

"Knock it off!" Talia hollers. She stomps forward, but Rongar hauls her back. He grabs Doubar's shoulder.

"Sinbad and Firouz are up in the rigging, but they must be on their way down by now," Talia says. "Hard to miss those shouts. Doubar, step back. You don't want your brother to see this."

"I want my brother free of her witchcraft, inhuman or barbarian, whatever it is!" He shakes off Rongar's hand and lands a big, booted foot in Maeve's midsection.

"Doubar!"

As if from far away, she hears someone yelling. She can't tell who. The rushing noise in her ears is too loud and all the air has left her lungs. She can't breathe. She needs Sinbad, but Sinbad isn't here. Pain explodes through her body as she fights for air. No. No, she refuses to be her mother. She's fought too long and too hard to lose everything this way. Without Sinbad it's up to her to protect her daughter. To get away. Her mother had no escape. Maeve will not be that victim again. She closes her eyes as desperation clouds her mind, blank terror replacing the last of her logical thoughts.

Roaring in her ears. Blood in her mouth. Pain everywhere. A hard cramp takes her abdomen, where Doubar kicked her.

Away. She needs to get away. The Nomad isn't home, isn't safe. Nowhere is, but especially not here. Not now.

Away. Anywhere. Not here. Not this place. Just...away. She struggles to rise, and can't.

But she needs to go. For her daughter. For herself. Away. A shadow moves over her, and in her panic she's afraid it's Doubar.

With a flash of flame-colored light, she disappears.

* * *

_A/N: If anyone's angry, please keep in mind that Scratch warned Sinbad very explicitly. It's just no one listened._


	31. Chapter 31

_A/N: Sorry this one took a little longer than I anticipated - the stress of the election got to me, work got busy, and I ended up deleting and rewriting this chapter multiple times. I finally decided to cut it here so you get this part sooner and I'm now wrestling with the next part, ha! Thank you for reading, for those of you who review or PM, and I'm sorry I can't reply to guest reviews personally but I'm grateful for them all!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

"Doubar!" Dread fills Sinbad as he drops into the galley, ignoring the steep stairs. He should have stopped work immediately when he heard the first waftings of an argument, should have slithered down the bare mast as fast as his arms would allow. He waited, knowing how much Maeve hates his protective instinct, how she prefers handling Doubar herself. Not until he saw Rongar and Talia break for the door did he follow, trusting whatever they heard that he could not. Those wasted moments are a decision he'll never, ever forgive himself for.

He's an instant too late as he lands in the galley, and in this case _too late_ is a line drawn not in sand but in blood. His heart's erratic, frantic beat freezes when he sees her, a pile of white linen and red hair struggling to rise, blood on her lip, her chin, so dark against the cream of her skin, dripping softly on the floor.

_You could have stopped this_, a voice whispers in his head, smooth and mocking. _Should have stopped it._ And of course he should have. He should have come to her immediately despite her disdain for his so-called overprotectiveness. That's his job, the only job that ever mattered, and as his eyes swiftly take in the scene before him he knows he failed.

Doubar's bulk shifts over her as he pulls roughly from Rongar's restraining grasp. A rising tide of panic surges in Sinbad's blood, roars in his ears, and he can't comprehend the words his brother speaks but he understands Doubar's body language perfectly well. Sinbad lunges—to stop his brother, to get between him and the dazed woman on the floor—but not in time. A heavy boot connects with her body just as she attempts to draw her legs under her and she curls instantly, a tight ball protecting her softest, most vulnerable parts, the instinctual position of any creature unable to flee or fight back.

"No!" He throws off the paralysis borne of shock, desperate to reach her as she huddles on the floor, attempting to protect her body and the child within it. No. _No._ He was on guard against Scratch. Rumina. Not this.

He drops to his knees at her side, hands reaching for her balled, shaking body as Rongar and Talia fight to restrain his brother. A small noise escapes her as his shadow falls over her, the terrified whine of a wounded prey animal, something he's never heard from her before. Pain makes her angry, not afraid. He's seen her fight; he knows this. But he knows that sound, too, and to hear his sorceress make it breaks him. His hands move to touch her shoulder, pull her tangled hair away from her face. He's here. She needs to know he's here.

In a blaze of warm, flame-colored light, she vanishes.

His head reels. The scent of magic hangs strong in the air, thick as the hum of energy before a lightning strike. His hands, outstretched to touch her, protect her, meet only the scuffed wood of his ship. Several bright drops of blood glimmer on the floor, the only proof he has, as the crystalline moment shatters, that she was ever there at all.

The world disintegrates. He feels the floorboards buck like a belligerent horse, rising toward him as if borne on a heaving wave. Darkness takes him.

* * *

"That witch bespelled him! Cursed him! I know she did!"

"I'm sorry, Doubar, but I see no evidence of magic here." Firouz's tense but practical voice emerges from the dark fuzziness clouding his brain.

"She disappeared and he collapsed! What more evidence do you need?"

"Aye, she disappeared. But there's no reason to think the two are necessarily linked. Maybe he hit his head coming down the stairs. There could be any number of reasons for his fainting, and dark magic from Maeve isn't one of them. What in the world possessed you to go at her like that?"

"At least let's take him topside and get him some air," Doubar growls, ignoring the scientist's question.

No. No, Sinbad's not going anywhere. He fights for clarity, for his cloudy mind to remember why he feels so shaky, why he's having trouble opening his eyes and making his body obey. Something's wrong. With him, maybe, but more than that. He can feel the change, a shift on his ship like a change in the wind. Something is very, very wrong, and he has to fix it. Concentrating hard, he manages to move his arm. A dizzy wash of exhaustion threatens to take him again, but he refuses to succumb. He has to get up. He has to remember, has to fix everything.

"Look, he's moving. I think he's coming around. I don't want to move him until I know he's unhurt."

Yes. Listen to Firouz. He hurts—good gods, he hurts—but that's not the problem. He groans as his senses slowly return to him, telling him one by one the same thing he knew when he woke: something is very wrong. He's so tired, and his entire body aches as if a herd of centaurs trampled him. He can smell magic, sharp and heady, taste it on his tongue. Panic seizes him, a jittery, painful sort of fear he doesn't understand because he can't recall the cause. He's beyond fatigued, more tired than he's been after any storm, any battle, and his body wants desperately to sleep, just sleep, but he can't. He's the captain. Whatever's wrong, he has to fix it.

"How could he be unhurt? He just collapsed!" Doubar barks. "Look at him! He looks like he's had the life sucked out of him!"

"He doesn't look so hot," Talia agrees, her voice cautious, something Sinbad isn't used to hearing from her. "But you might want to scram for a while, big guy. He saw what you did. He won't be happy when he wakes up."

"I'm not going anywhere. He's looked terrible since Rumina cast that blasted spell on us and he looks twice as bad now. She did it, the she-devil! She did something to him."

"Rumina? I doubt that. She wasn't even here." Skepticism laces Firouz's tone. Sinbad feels the man's hand on his forehead and he wants to shove it away.

"Not Rumina! Maeve! He collapsed when that traitor disappeared. She cursed him somehow!" Doubar barks.

Maeve.

_Maeve_.

He fights to rise, fights the lethargy holding his body captive. She disappeared. She's gone. That's the disquiet he feels, the panic, the sense that something on his ship isn't right. She's not here. His memory of the last few moments before his collapse rushes back to him with sickening clarity. She's not able to just disappear at will like that. She's told him so—that's advanced work beyond her current ability. And she's weak, sapped of strength by Rumina's spell. She can't do it. But she did.

He groans as he levers himself upright with his arms, one stiff movement at a time, the pain in his head surging. His vision greys and he almost loses consciousness again, but no. No. He needs to find her.

"Sinbad!" Firouz is at his side when he opens his eyes. "Easy. Here, lean against the bench. Take a deep breath. Do you want some water?"

No, he doesn't want any fucking water. He wants his family. "Maeve." His voice croaks out of him as he digs impatient fingers in his eyes, steadying his vision.

"See?" Doubar demands. "She's bewitched him! She's gone but he's still under her spell!"

"No spell," Sinbad insists. He clears his throat and raises his hand, appalled when he finds a smear of blood on his palm—her blood, now smeared across the floor and his hand. "Please tell me she was wearing her bracelet." It's the only hope he has to cling to. If she was wearing her opal, there's a chance she could have triggered the traveling spell without overtaxing herself. There's a chance she could have made it north. No matter how angry Antoine is, it's the best option Sinbad can conceive.

His crew glance blankly at each other.

"Ah…" Talia steps forward and pushes up her sleeve. "You mean this bracelet?"

And yes, there on her arm he spies the delicate silver wraps housing the magical opal, the stone dull white in the dim light, its brilliance muted.

"You stole that from her _again_?" He surges to his feet, fist clenching tight, anger rising as swiftly as it did when he saw her fall, saw Doubar's boot connect with her body.

"I took it from her trunk before you hauled it away!" Talia protests, squaring herself with his bigger body as she defends herself stoutly. "It would have gone with the silks to the harbormaster if I hadn't. I figured she'd remember and demand it back eventually. This is not the time to argue about that!"

She's right, and doubly so that this is not the time to yell about it. Sinbad sways on his feet, struggling to think through his crushing headache. Maeve wasn't wearing her bracelet, which means whatever she did, she did on her own, and he's not stupid. She has neither the training nor the power for that to end well.

"No." His fist clenches tighter. No. No, he refuses to think like that. Maeve is strong. The strongest woman he's ever known.

_She isn't_, a voice in his head cackles gleefully. _Not now._

Yes, she is. Maybe not in body at the moment, but in spirit, and that's something Rumina can't steal.

_How touching,_ the voice in his head whispers back. _And how very useless, considering._

Even as he refuses that sneering voice the panic in his gut expands and a sick feeling creeps into his belly, a slithery sort of queasiness, as if he swallowed a nest of writhing, mucus-covered worms. It feels cold and heavy as lead, and threatens to choke him, gag him. No. She's alive. She has to be. He just has to find her before anything worse happens. She's hurt, he saw it for himself. Her blood is drying on his skin. She needs Firouz, the best physician he's ever known. He slams open the door of his cabin, staring at the empty space. She's not there, as he knew she would not be, but he had to look anyway.

"Search the ship," he commands, letting the door bang shut behind him as he crosses to her tiny cabin. Empty. She's not here. His gut knows it, but he has to check. He has to find her.

"Why bother?" Doubar sits heavily on the bench. He looks shaken despite his tone.

Sinbad launches his fist into the wall to stop himself from launching it into his brother's fat face. Something in his hand crunches; he welcomes the pain. It doesn't lessen the jagged hole ripped through him by Maeve's absence, but it distracts from it. A little. Maybe. "To find her! What were you thinking?" he demands. "She disappeared to escape from you! What possessed you to put your hands on her? To kick her when she was already down?"

Red-faced, Doubar lurches to his feet, his own anger not yet spent. He throws back his shoulders in an act of defiance. "I was thinking that bitch needed a little takedown! She was in your cabin, traipsing around as if she owned the place. Any other captain would flog a crewmember bloody for acting as she does!"

Sinbad's stomach sickens still further at the thought. He's never been a captain like that and he never wants to be. "You attacked a woman as sick as she clearly is just for being in my cabin?" he demands. "Search the ship!" he repeats, rounding on the rest of his crew, who swiftly move to obey him though they know as well as he does that they won't find her. "I won't say it again!"

"You're angry at me?" Doubar looks baffled. "I was defending you! Protecting you!"

"She had my permission for all of it—for being in my cabin, for eating when she needs to—all of the ridiculous, petty things you've been angry about. You should have just asked me!" Sinbad's fist tightens and whatever he hurt inside it crackles like crinkled paper. It doesn't matter. Maybe it even feels good, in a sick sort of way. "You used to be friends! No brother of mine would speak to a woman like that, hurt a woman like that, let alone a friend." He moves to stride away, to search the ship himself. He can't deal with Doubar right now. He needs to calm down first, which he can't do until he finds Maeve. He needs her back with him where she belongs, under Firouz's care, needs to see for himself the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. His mind trips and races, spinning out of control with conjecture, fears and worries and far too much panic. He's a level-headed guy; he never panics. But Doubar hurt his sorceress, she disappeared, and he needs to find her. She's so very important, both her and the child she carries.

"How can you stand there and call her a friend?" The color in Doubar's red face deepens as Sinbad attempts to walk away. "She won't help you! Acted like you were asking for the world instead of a few nights and a big belly. I tried to tell her you didn't want her for life, but no, as if that mattered to her! I warned you ages ago about that bitch, but you wouldn't listen!"

And that's it. "You fucking idiot!" Sinbad whirls, a smooth motion very like a dance, and his fist connects with his brother's face. Something breaks under his knuckles with a satisfying crunch, but whatever he hurt in his hand cracks further, too. "How could you? How could you say that to her? Put your _hands_ on her? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Got rid of a damned distraction!" Doubar grunts, covering the side of his mouth where his brother's fist landed amid the bushy hairs. Blood drips from his mouth, from Sinbad's hand where his knuckles met teeth. Sinbad doesn't feel it. "Now maybe without all her spells and guile you'll finally pay attention to Talia. We have no time left to waste, brother! Rumina took that! You have to face reality. Talia is ten times the woman that barbarian witch ever was, and I'm glad she's gone."

Sinbad pulls at his hair, ignoring his bleeding hand. His head swims, dipping and racing, and it's difficult to latch onto any concrete thought. Only Maeve, his Maeve. Her name pulses in his head, beats in his blood. Not a spell. Not a witch. She's his light in the darkness, the purest flame burning away all uncertainty. He needs her back. She ran away, retreated from danger the only way she could. But to where? Her kin are no longer her kin, and too far for her to reach without her opal besides. So where?

"She's not here, Sinbad," Firouz says softly as his crew returns to the galley.

"I know." He knew before they searched. His body feels her loss, as she warned him it might. Wherever she went, she's not nearby. He sinks to a bench, head in his hands, trying desperately to think. Where would she have gone? Fear clogs his mind, exhaustion hampers his rationality. He prides himself on being clear-headed, but not today. If not to Breakwater, where would she go? He doesn't even know how magical transportation works. Does she have to have a specific target? Could she transport herself, say, somewhere in the city, without a clear aim?

Heedless of his bleeding hand, the blood he's smeared liberally across his face and in his hair, Sinbad lunges for the door.

"Wait!" Firouz protests, and Rongar steps firmly between him and the stairs.

"Get out of my way!" Sinbad tries to duck around his crewmembers but they stand firm. "You stay here in case she somehow returns. I'm going to search the city."

Firouz and Rongar share a glance as Talia steps up beside them. "She's not there, Sinbad," Firouz says. His voice is gentle. Rongar shakes his head.

"You don't know that! No one knows where she went. She could be anywhere."

"Or nowhere," Talia says. Her eyes are full of compassion. "I don't know magic too well, but I know what I saw. That girl couldn't lift a feather with her magic, Sinbad. Maybe before Rumina's spell, but not now. You know it. You saw the same thing I did."

"No," he insists, though even as he denies Talia's words his body remembers the terrible feeling that almost overcame him when he used Maeve's opal on his own. He was caught in a void between worlds, a horrible, freezing nowhere that sucked the breath from his lungs as he fought to reach the other side. It was a place and yet no place, and without the power of his rainbow bracelet he knows he would have been trapped there. "No. I'll find a sorcerer in the city and bring him here. Maybe he can track her somehow, figure out where she went." He has to find her. She's hurt, and she's carrying his daughter. He needs to find them both.

"No, Sinbad." Firouz's eyes are as gentle as Talia's. "No sorcerer could find what isn't there to find. No scientist, either."

Rongar places his hands on Sinbad's shoulders and squeezes hard. He shakes his head slowly.

"No. You're wrong." They have to be. There isn't any other option. He shakes Rongar off and wipes his bloody hand over his face. "Cairpra! She wanted Cairpra. Maybe she went to Basra."

"Maybe she tried," Firouz allows. "It's a reasonable hypothesis. As good as any blind conjecture. But the destination doesn't matter, Sinbad. There was no way she could have made it."

"You don't know that! Keep to science," Sinbad snarls.

"I do know it. I know magic operates under different rules, but some things are universal. Immutable. You can't make something out of nothing, can't create without energy behind it. A ship goes nowhere without the wind. A mill-wheel grinds nothing without something to turn it. She had nothing to give."

Except her life. Two lives.

Numbly, Sinbad staggers. He can feel the pain in his hand, can feel Rongar's body as the man tries to guide him toward the bench. He can't feel his own heartbeat. Is it still there? Or did it stop, his own hourglass stilling when hers did?

"She's with child." It's the first time he's admitted the truth out loud to his people. His voice doesn't sound like his voice; he sounds like a little boy.

"I know." Firouz's eyes flit away from his. "I ought to have sooner. I'm sorry, old friend."

The slithering, sick feeling in his gut intensifies. No. He needs her. Not for the salvation of his soul, but for everything she means, everything she is. This can't be how it ends, a petty argument turned sour, a flash of temper from his brother and...that's it. Just like that.

"No," he whispers once more. "She's strong."

"Very," Firouz agrees. He clears his throat. "But sick, as you said. And half-trained at best."

"I'm sorry, Sinbad." Talia slips the silver bracelet from her arm and hands it to him. "Truly." She crosses her arms over her chest and looks away.

There's a jagged hole ripped in his chest where Maeve belongs, an aching hollowness far worse than any physical pain he's ever experienced. She was right there, under his fingers. He would have touched her in another moment. But he was too slow. Too late. Now they're gone. He puts his hands to his head and squeezes hard, as if he wants to crush his own skull, mimicking the gesture Antoine made when he spoke of Nessa's disappearance. It doesn't help at all. Maeve. He's come close to losing her before—to Vincenzo, to the Norsemen, the Vorgon, Rumina multiple times. Together they've always come through largely unscathed, but not this time. Not today, and it's his fault.

But not only his.

He moves swiftly, vision swimming, and his fist connects with his brother's face, breaking the bulbous nose. His fist drops open, something in his hand too damaged to obey his command anymore, but he has another hand and the rest of his body, too. Fury wakes deep in his blood.

"You monster!" He's yelling and weeping and knows his words make no sense but they bubble out of him anyway and he does nothing to stop them. "You killed them! You fucking monster! She was with child!"

Over the ruined mess of his lower face, Doubar's bloodshot eyes open wide.

Rongar places a firm, restraining hand on Sinbad's chest, pushing him back gently from his brother. His eyes are compassionate but his body is solid.

"Get out of my way!" Sinbad lunges for Doubar again.

Rongar shakes his head and stands implacably between them.

"What good will that do now?" Firouz places a hand on Sinbad's arm. "It won't bring her back. Calm down first. Justice can never be dealt in anger."

Sinbad shakes him off. Hurting Doubar won't bring Maeve back, no, but it's all he's capable of in the moment and fuck, it doesn't make him feel better but he craves it.

_He took what was yours_, the whisper in his head says gleefully. _Two lives that belonged to you, and your chance at salvation with them. Let him pay in kind._

"She was helping me from the beginning!" He tries to shove Rongar out of the way, but the Moor is bigger than him and solid as granite. The tears don't stop and his eyes sting as water mixes with blood on his face. "How could you ever believe she wouldn't, you idiot? You were friends!"

Nothing will ever ease this wound. It feels as if his brother has thrust a saber in his gut and twisted, pulling everything from him, leaving him empty and raw. A sick gladness fills him that soon he'll lose his soul—living like this is too painful. He can't bear it. Let Scratch have what's left of him.

_Gladly_, the whisper says. _But kill the oaf first._

His saber hangs on the rack with the others; it would be at Doubar's throat otherwise. He tenses his non-dominant fist and prepares to lunge.

* * *

Darkness surrounds her.

She wakes on black ground she cannot feel, neither rough with stones nor soft with grass. She sees nothing, hears nothing. Just darkness. No wind stirs her hair.

Is this death? Just the aching cold, the dark, hovering silence? She never gave credence to any particular afterlife, believing only that human beings were not meant to know what comes after. But somehow she didn't quite expect this.

She huddles tight, a small ball of sorrow as the darkness presses close. The cold. Icy shivers take her.

Sinbad. She bleats softly as his face enters her mind, just a memory now. She knows she'll never see him again. She's not sad for herself, for her death, her only grief for the things she's left undone, the people she's let down. Her captain. Her brother. Her daughter most of all.

She moves, somewhat surprised that she still has form, a corporeal body, and winds her arms around herself, hugging her torso tightly. Yet as she tightens her grip, a crushing realization takes her. Her belly lies hollow and concave, exactly as it would in her emaciated state if she carried no child. Her Fin is gone.

She whimpers, her body unable to form any other sound as this awareness crashes down. Thick, freezing darkness swallows the noise. She feels like she's shouting into a winding sheet, a shroud of layers and layers of velvet. She's truly alone now. No Dermott. No Sinbad. Not even her baby, the child she fought so hard to keep. The cold seeps past her skin, dripping into her veins as swiftly as this loss. It's not fair. It's just not fair. She and her daughter died together. Surely that means they ought to stay together?

_It might_, a voice whispers in her head. _If this were heaven. If such a place existed._

So.

This is either punishment for her many misdeeds, or just the reality of death—nothingness. A cold void. She hugs herself tightly, her frozen body beginning to shiver. She hates this, but she hates even more the thought of her baby likewise alone in the void. Or do unborn souls go somewhere else, somewhere other than this pit of frigid black? She hopes so. Her daughter never had the chance to do anything wrong, make any mistakes. She doesn't deserve this. No unborn soul does.

Maeve huddles in the darkness, dropping her head, breathing in the tasteless dust of the frozen ground. She aches, throbbing with pain not of the body, but still so very physical. It happened so quickly, everything she fought for, strove for, now lying in ruins. Her world came to pieces so fast, her final moments a blur of frenzied emotion, the danger realized too late to guard against. She was too confident in herself, her ability to handle Doubar's anger. She wasted too much energy guarding against Rumina and Scratch, and failed to see the danger much closer to her heart. Did Doubar even kill her, though? She's unsure. Her dazed mind can't remember. She remembers being struck, remembers falling. Remembers his kick as she attempted to rise, his boot landing with vicious precision where her womb now lies empty. She remembers fear, though she no longer feels it. Remembers desperately wishing for escape, for safety. Remembers fleeting thoughts of her family at Breakwater, of Dim-Dim on the Isle of Dawn, of Cairpra's warm little rooms in Basra. Now she's here.

And everything she tried so hard to prevent either has come to pass or will soon. Her daughter died before she ever lived. Sinbad's soul is now doomed to Scratch unless he's willing to start over with Talia or another girl. Dermott and Nessa are both lost in a very big world, possibly themselves dead, never to be avenged, Rumina's curse never to be broken. She'll never get the chance to apologize to any of them. To thank Rongar for his unending loyalty and kindness. To explain to Doubar.

A wave of anger tries to take her, but she's just too numb, inside and out. She's shivering hard now, shaking as she hugs her knees to her chest, the unrelenting cold of this place sinking into her bones. She wants very much to be angry at Doubar, but she just can't. The immensity of her loss is too consuming, too much for her injured body to bear. She has no room for anything else, just the hollow, stunned ache that will not fade. Dermott. Sinbad. Her little Fin. All gone now, doomed because she wasn't strong enough.

The loss of this newest love hits her deep, freezing her deep inside, where her daughter used to lie. Unborn babies die as often as they live and she knew this, but despite the risk she fell in love anyway. She knew better. And she never intended to be a mother in the first place, never particularly wanted to take up this role. She wanted to do something bigger with her life, and once Dermott was cursed it almost became a moot point. She inherited the quest to free him just as Dermott inherited her when their mother died.

Something changed during the moons she spent harboring her little stowaway inside her body, feeding her, sharing her magic, her strength. She gave her a name even though she knew better, gave her an identity, something Keely warns all the women she cares for never to do. Not until they survive the birth. The pain isn't quite so consuming, she says, without that marker of identity. But Maeve did it anyway. She ignored the voice of reason, as she so often does, and now she's paying the price. Doubar may have put her here, in this place that isn't a place, but in this respect she wounded herself.

And Sinbad. The man she refused to admit she wanted from the first. She aches, arms shuddering as she hugs herself tightly, as tightly as her withered muscles will squeeze. She wants his arms instead, the warmth of his body, how he holds her so hard against his chest that it feels like nothing else in the world exists. Just him. Just them, together. She wants to hear him tell her, just one more time, that everything will turn out all right. That everything happens for a reason. He's always had greater faith in their lost mentor's adage than she.

But he's gone. Everyone is gone. She doesn't quite understand exactly how it happened, but she understands this place, understands what it means. She's dead. She failed. And she left so much undone.

"We're not so different in that, my girl."

Maeve's eyes snap open.

She can see. The light is faint, thin and cold, like the first touch of false dawn on old snow. Grey on grey, a figure settles beside her. The light doesn't come from her, exactly, but it illuminates her without giving any further hint to the nature of this place. Maeve still can't see the ground as she lifts her tired cheek from the dust, but she can see the woman next to her. She's dim and faint, long curly hair falling in front of her face until she pushes it back, revealing features Maeve almost recognizes. Like the memory of a dream, she feels a faint tug but no corresponding answers in her head: no reference points, no name.

"Who are you?" She watches the figure warily. Her voice drips with suspicion and she makes no attempt to rise. She's too tired, too consumed with her grief. If she can't have her sailor, her baby, she wants to be alone.

The woman's full mouth quakes, the corners slanting upward but the gesture laced with sorrow. "You don't remember me."

"Should I?" Maeve blinks. There's dust in her eyes, but it causes no further pain. Is it even possible to hurt the dead? Or has her body simply gone numb to any additional distress? She stares at the woman in the cold grey light. She isn't old, but she looks careworn, the years aging her faster than they ought. Maeve can't determine the color of her hair, her eyes. She has the face of a Celt, but not one Maeve knows.

"I suppose not. You were so young when I left you. But I know you. I knew the moment you arrived. Dermott, too."

Maeve's heart can fall no further. She nods swiftly, a tight jerk of her chin. So her brother really is dead. He beat her here. She thought she'd know if anything truly awful befell him, their bond speaking in her blood, her bones. Apparently she was wrong about that, too, as she has been about so many things.

The woman's hand reaches out, small and short-fingered, to touch Maeve's cheek.

Maeve ducks away. "Don't touch me. Who are you?" She doesn't want this strange woman.

"I think you already know that, though you don't want to admit it. You always were a stubborn one."

Maeve's eyes frantically search the woman's face, seeking a hint, just a hint, anything she might recognize. She finds nothing. "No," she says, scowling as she slowly draws herself upright, hugging her knees to her chest as she sits. Her head spins. Fuck, she's so cold. Why does she still hurt so much even after death? "No. You can't be." She remembers her mother. She does. But she doesn't know the face sitting before her.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of ghosts? You never were when you were small." The woman tilts her head to the side, her sorrowful smile growing sweeter. "Dermott would tell you the most horrible stories. Ghosts and ghouls, every kind of monster imaginable. You never had nightmares, not once. Never clung to my skirts or cried. You always wanted more. To be where he was, hear what he said. His little fiery shadow. Made me wonder sometimes if you were really mine at all."

And Maeve can no longer deny it, though her heart does not remember this face, her eyes see nothing in it of Dermott, of herself. "Mother."

"Aye." The woman nods, just once, a soft dip of her chin. "I hoped it would be much longer before I met my children again, but you take after your father. I guess I shouldn't be surprised you're here so young. You have his temper. His aggression. Even his hair." She twists a red curl between her fingers. "He was stronger than me in every respect. Even his blood, it seems."

Maeve shies from the touch. The woman looks hurt, but swiftly smooths over her frown. "Did I upset you? I'm sorry. It's just the truth. You look just like him. It's no curse—he's a beautiful man."

"How can you say that?" Maeve whispers, staring at the woman before her. Máire, she remembers abruptly. Her mother's name was Máire. It's been so long she nearly forgot. "He's a monster."

"Monsters often hide behind fair faces. You're young, my girl, but old enough to know that by now."

She is. She's known it almost all her life. But the woman sitting before her, claiming to be her mother, just compared her so casually to him—not just in looks, which she has no control over, but in temperament too, and that's the part that horrifies her. She's not like him. She isn't. She's also just not ready for this. She doesn't know the face hovering so near, and she's too full of her own fresh grief to have any room for old ones.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I'm tired. Please. I just want…" Her voice trails off. She doesn't actually want to be alone. But she doesn't want this stranger, either.

"Shh. I know. Dermott was unhappy at first, too. And furiously angry at you. But since his beloved came, he's been better." She tilts her head to the side. "She's a lovely thing. And having her here has certainly been a relief to him, though it isn't how he would have chosen to be reunited."

So Nessa's dead, too. Maeve tried to brace herself for this possibility, but she was never able to quite lose hope that her sister might somehow defy the odds. Now she knows better. She did this to them. Failed them. They'll never have a chance at a happy ending now, their lives cut short before Rumina's curse could be lifted.

"You are so beautiful," the woman says softly, staring at Maeve. "Not quite what a mother would want for her little girl, but so very, very beautiful." Her fingertips trace Maeve's cheek, hovering close to her chin. They're the same temperature as the icy air. "I almost don't believe I ever made something so pretty."

Maeve drops her head, avoiding the woman's searching gaze. She can't help it. She doesn't want this stranger, no matter the past they share. The only mother-daughter bond she feels, the only one she wants, is with her own baby, now taken from her.

_Not taken. You killed her yourself. You failed to protect her,_ the mocking voice in her head whispers. She flinches.

"Don't pay him any mind. That's just Scratch playing his tricks. Didn't you realize? I thought you were smarter than that."

Maeve blinks. She thought she was, too. She knew Scratch likes to whisper in people's minds, even before he lured Rory into locking her in the hold.

The voice in her head laughs, dark and low, full of her own sweet lilt but also a jagged, biting cruelty she herself does not possess.

Her breath freezes for a long moment, her eyes widening as the laugh bleeds from her head, turning from something heard only by herself into a true sound, dancing in the heavy blackness. She stares at the nothingness around her, the frigid dark surrounding her and her mother as the velvet black seems to vibrate with the mocking laughter.

_And she prides herself on being so intelligent._

"Enough, demon," Maeve's mother says mildly. "Your games sent her here. Isn't that enough?"

_Is it ever?_ The voice is Maeve's, but isn't. It deepens, lowering and growing in darkness until she hears once more the voice she heard on the Nomad, the voice emanating from the apparition of Scratch in the water barrel. _She's mine now. Once a soul is mine, I may do as I like. This is not the world of the living, remember. I am not constrained by anything here as I am there._

"What interest have you in my daughter? It's her sailor you want, her sailor you killed her to reach."

_I? I killed no one. I played the game exactly as I told them I would. I warned them, even. Told them exactly what I would do. Is it my fault they listen to my whispers and not my explicit warnings?_ The disembodied voice howls with laughter. _I didn't touch your girl. I merely spoke to her, to her ill-begotten captain, to his bumbling idiot of a brother. Of course the oaf listened better than the others. Why they keep such a fool around, a weak spot in their defenses, is beyond me. A stupid giant is worse than no giant at all, as he beautifully proved today. _The cackles grow louder. _An angry giant is a dangerous thing, and fools are so easily spurred to violence. A whisper here, a whisper there, and he did the killing for me. The pretty girl's blood is not on my hands. It would have been, had she listened better. I almost had her, you know, the night they docked. I convinced her to leave him, something I doubted she ever would do. Too loyal for that, I thought—everyone thought. But we were wrong. She didn't turn out so loyal once she realized how close she was to losing her own life. She ran when I told her to run. Would have died doing so if that blasted sailor of hers hadn't stopped her._

"No," Maeve whispers, huddled tight in the glacial darkness, her body shuddering both with cold and with this revelation. "No," she insists, dropping her chin to her knees, desperately seeking something—warmth, solace, some protection from the cold, from Scratch's words as they dance mockingly around her. "I wasn't trying to save myself. I was trying to save my daughter." She never would leave Sinbad for any other reason. But she swore a vow when she conceived a child, the same vow all mothers swear without perhaps consciously realizing it: to protect that life above all others. It's a vow she took very seriously, and a vow she utterly failed to keep.

_It's the same thing when you wear the same skin_, Scratch says indifferently. _And, either way, you failed. Both of you rot in my world now, and your death has cleared the path to my ultimate goal. The sailor._ He cackles. _As I said before, I never did care overmuch for chess. War made bloodless. But when it translates to real lives, real souls, it becomes a much more entertaining game. __Does it not, my pretty Celt? Removing you from play has cleared the last obstacle from my path to your sweet captain. Without you and the child I knew perfectly well you carried, his soul is mine._

"You don't know that!" she protests. "He still has time!"

_Time, yes, but no inclination. No heart left to begin again with someone else. You did that to him, broke this part of him, and the most beautiful part is that you did it on your own. I said nothing, influenced no one. You bound him to you. You created this weakness._

No. She closes her eyes to the mocking darkness, tucking her head against her knees and holding on as tightly as she can manage. Even as part of her rebels against Scratch's dark words, another part of her can't stop the trickle of icy truth as it enters her. He's a loathsome demon, but that doesn't mean he can't speak the truth and right now he does. She didn't mean to weaken Sinbad, but she did. By loving him. By making him her _céile_, she changed this fundamental part of him. Bound him to her, as Scratch says. She did it without malice, without thinking what might happen to him if she died. She never meant to hurt him, but in trying the Tam Lin Protocol, trying to save him, she became the agent for his destruction.

"Leave her be, demon," Máire says, and Maeve feels a light hand in her hair. It's a touch her body does not recognize, and does not want. "Don't cry, child. I haven't seen you cry in a long, long time."

Funny. It's all she seems to do these days.

"What the demon says may be true, but there's no point in agonizing over it as he'd like you to. He may rule this realm, but death is not hell unless you choose it to be. Trust me, I've been here long enough to know."

Still she hides. From Scratch, though the demon is mercifully silent at the moment. From her mother's voice, the touch of a cold hand on her equally cold skin. She aches for warmth, the unrelenting southern sun. The heat of Sinbad's mouth, his skin. More than anything, she wants to hold her baby. Just once. Kiss the little face she made. Apologize to her. She can't be here, can she, lost in this neverending darkness? It's not fair. She never even had a chance.

"It's amusing, in a way, my girl. We didn't turn out so differently, you and I."

Maeve raises her aching head to regard the woman with one dark eye. They look nothing alike. They _are_ nothing alike. She's a warrior, trained by Dermott and Antoine, and a middling magician, her haphazard schooling undertaken first by scholars, then, in adulthood, by Dim-Dim. Her mother is an unlettered peasant woman who came of age and went from the house of her father to the house of a man who wanted her, as most women do the world over, without considering any other option.

"I know. On the surface it sounds ridiculous. You had such shining promise. My beautiful girl, quick-witted and graceful, your magic apparent before you could speak. I thought if any girl could overcome harsh circumstances, you could. Climb up and out—by force if necessary. Your will was so strong, even so young. I could feel it. But for all that, you didn't manage it, did you?" She smiles softly. "I didn't, either."

Maeve's spine stiffens. She does not like this talk. She's hesitant to shove away the only other soul here, unsure whether she'll be left alone for eternity if she does. She doesn't like that option, either. But she struggles against what her mother says. "Did you even try?"

The woman's shoulders hitch, a halfhearted shrug. "I chose a man they didn't approve of. A man they warned would never make me happy." Her mouth curves in a self-deprecating, hard little smile. "They were right, of course."

Maeve never had parents to either approve or disapprove of her choices. Her people at Breakwater seemed to accept Sinbad well enough, for the short time they all coexisted. Dermott did not, but he had his own reasons. He liked Sinbad fine, just not the fact that the man was fucking his baby sister. No one ever questioned Sinbad's ability to make her happy, she doesn't think. They trusted her to make her own decision, and to un-make it if she wasn't satisfied. But, she supposes, maybe that's the difference between real parents and a makeshift family. She wouldn't know. She's never known.

"I didn't pick a bad man," she says softly, her eyes shifting from the ghost of her mother, staring blankly into the blackness. She didn't ever particularly want a man, want children. Nonetheless, the loss of both now threatens to crush her.

"You picked a violent one. The same as I did."

No. She didn't. Sinbad isn't like that. He's a happy man, generally speaking, easygoing, eager to help where he can. "He's not violent," she says, closing her eyes to the unending dark.

"Don't lie to me, or to yourself. He lives by the sword."

"But he never attacks first. And he defends people who can't defend themselves. You chose a bully."

"That bully gave you the beauty and aggression that kept you alive for twenty years, child. You think anyone would have cared what happened to you had you been born plain and quiet? Nobody cares about ugly girls, and they forget the meek ones. You received the help you got from others—from the scholars at Brí Leith, from the old sorcerer, even from your sailors—because of your beauty. Your fight. Because you stood out. And all that came from him. Don't delude yourself. You're dead now, there's no point."

A thread of indignant anger rises in Maeve's heart, but only a thread. She's too full of grief for more. But she hates her mother's words. She's not like her father—she's not. He's a large, dangerous shadow in her memory, someone she knew to fear even so young. She wants nothing to do with him, nothing of his, no comparisons with him.

From somewhere in the blackness, far off in the distance, Maeve hears a thin wail. A baby crying. Her head jerks up.

"Don't mind that. They all do it from time to time. They don't like the dark, the cold."

No one would. Maeve herself does not. That cry tugs at her, wrenches something deep inside. Her numb hands slowly unlock from her knees. They feel frozen, like ice, muscles resisting her command. She hesitates, unsure if she's capable of rising.

"You'll get used to it."

How can she say so? She had two children of her own. Doesn't she feel anything at that thin, quavering wail? Maeve's jaw clenches, and she rolls her weight slowly onto her feet. Her head swims and her palms hit the cold ground. She crouches on all fours, heart pounding hard against her ribs, summoning the energy to stand. "I'm not like him," she insists. "I'll never be like him. I may have failed, but I did the best I could." She forces herself to her feet.

"Did you? Really?" Her mother's eyes are sharp in the freezing darkness. She rises with tense grace. "For whom?"

Maeve doesn't have an answer for that as her head swims, threatening to bring her down again. She's always tried to do her best for the people she loves. Dermott. Her chosen family, including the crew of the Nomad and its captain. And, most recently, her daughter. She tried. It just wasn't enough. Resolutely, she takes a step toward the sound of the infant's cries.

"You chose a man over your brother," her mother says, "over your vow to save him. Was that really doing your best?"

The crushing guilt of that decision will live in her forever. But she's not as heartless as her mother seems to think. "No," she says softly, taking another step. Her knees hold. Barely. "I didn't. Why does everyone insist on framing this as a choice between two men? It wasn't!"

"Only your brother's ingenuity and bravery saved you when you were young, you know that, right? Your father would have abandoned you in the woods or drowned you in the river, had Dermott left you with him. Dermott is the reason you survived to meet that sailor in the first place."

"Of course I know that," Maeve whispers, staring ahead into the darkness as she navigates by sound, the baby's cries guiding her forward. Her arms wrap around herself, hugging tightly. How could she not know these things? She lived them. She remembers. She doesn't remember her mother's face, apparently, but she remembers Dermott. The smell of whiskey and blood heavy in the air, the feel of her brother's wiry young arms as he dragged her away from their mother's broken body.

"Then why? Why would you choose a foreign sailor, a man you have nothing in common with, over your own brother? The brother who did everything for you—saved you, raised you?" The hurt in her voice is very real, and Maeve winces against it, against the accusation she can feel in every word.

"It wasn't like that! It wasn't a choice between them," she insists. "I needed Sinbad to help me find Dim-Dim. I needed Dim-Dim to complete my training, so I could face Rumina." A trickle of air leaves her lungs, all she has left in this moment. "But it doesn't matter now. I failed at all of it."

"No," her mother agrees, "I suppose it doesn't matter now."

Maeve almost trips over the child in the darkness. She has no cold grey light as Máire does. She's alone in the freezing dust, newborn, the tied-off cord of her navel still attached, wet and freezing, squalling at the cold, the isolation. Her mother's ghost hisses but doesn't prevent Maeve from dropping next to the tiny, wriggling thing. She takes the cold, rubbery body in her arms, scowling fiercely as she brings it to her chest. "This isn't right! I've made my mistakes. Scratch can do with me as he likes. She hasn't."

"That's not yours," Máire says.

"I don't care! It doesn't matter who her mother is. It's still not right."

"The only ones claiming the afterlife was meant to be fair are living humans who have no clue." Máire takes a step back. "Put her down. She's not meant for you."

Maeve refuses. This may not be her lost daughter, but she refuses to just abandon her. She's tiny—too tiny, like a little bird, born too soon and died because of it. But that's not her fault, not a sin to be punished with everlasting darkness and silence. She cradles the crying child, though her own body holds no physical warmth to give her. She's a pretty thing, wee elfin features barely discernible in the ghost's dim reflected light. Her eyes open, blinking blearily, and meet Maeve's. She can't tell what color they're meant to be in the darkness, but she can clearly see the hurting soul inside. It's not fair. It's just not fair.

"Put her down," Máire repeats.

"I will give her to her mother, when she comes. Not before." Maeve curls the child against her body, holding her close as the wails quiet, turning to fretful whimpers. One tiny palm opens, pressed to her heart.

"You don't get that," the woman snaps, her eyes suddenly alight with bitterness. "Not after everything you've done. You thought you were invincible, thought you could have it all, and you lost everything because of it. Dermott died because of you! My son, my perfect boy. Moons ago, searching for that old man on his own. His beloved, too, or didn't you hear me before? She never even made it to the continent!"

Maeve ducks her head, resting her chin over the tiny cranium cradled against her collar. She can't face that stare. Not when her mother's right. She killed that woman's son with her thoughtless decisions, killed her own brother because she made too many conflicting promises, trusted herself to do too much. And everyone else will pay the price. "I'm sorry," she whispers, voice cracking. She has no idea who she's apologizing to—her mother. Dermott. Nessa. Her daughter. Everyone she's ruined with this failure.

"Sorry doesn't change facts! Put that thing down. You killed your brother for the chance to save a sailor, a gamble you lost. His woman is likewise dead because of you, and the sailor you intended to help will belong to Scratch before long. Because of you. Because of the choices you made!"

Maeve's eyes clench tightly against tears she no longer has to shed and her hands clutch the tiny child against her chest, refusing to put her down. It's true, all of it, and she can't deny it. She deserves to be here, but this child does not. Her own baby does not. "I'm sorry," she repeats, for she has nothing else she can say. She knows how it feels to lose a child. She can't ease this woman's grief.

A blaze of bright golden light flames up, and Maeve winces against it as the warmer light flares behind her eyelids. She cries out softly, the child in her arms bleating its fear of a light brighter than any it's likely ever known. From the midst of the blaze, she hears a voice both familiar and very, very welcome. "That," Cairpra says, firm and very displeased, "will be quite enough of that."

Maeve's head jerks up, and she watches Máire draw back two steps from the golden light. Cairpra strides forward, very solid and very real.

"I realize you enjoy these games, demon, but this is low even for you." The old woman places a hand at Maeve's elbow and despite her exhaustion she obeys, rising to her feet. The hand on her arm is warm, the first warmth she's felt in...she doesn't know how long. Too long. "Maeve, dearest, don't look with your eyes. Look with your heart."

"I don't know how," she stutters, clutching the premature infant to her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs, hard and out of rhythm.

"You do. This shade is made of his whispers just as much as the thoughts in your head have been influenced by them. Look harder."

Cairpra has never lied to her. Cairpra has never deceived her. She opens her eyes and looks at Máire, the woman's cold grey light nearly extinguished in the golden blaze. It's not Cairpra who's glowing, she realizes abruptly, but a fissure in the darkness, a jagged slice of a doorway cut through the black. Beyond it, she can see the warm golden glow of a hearth, bright Arabian sunshine streaming through windows in a room she knows. Basra.

And suddenly she knows where she is.

"I'm not dead."

"No. Not yet. By all rights you should be, but you're tougher than that." Cairpra touches her cheek, her hand firm and warm, and it's the most beautiful thing Maeve thinks she's ever felt. "You tried to travel untrained. I would very much like to know why, but now is not the time. You're not dead, my dear. You just got a little lost, and Scratch took advantage. He has more leverage in an un-place than he does in our world. Now do you see?"

Maeve stares at the ghost of her mother. A bright, malevolent gleam appears in the depths of her eyes. The woman's shade melts away, shifting and changing into a visage she's only seen as an apparition before. He's big, bigger than she thought, and hairy from his head to his cloven hooves. He scowls at Cairpra with his terrible half-human face.

"Begone, meddling witch! This is no place for you!"

"This is no place at all," Cairpra says firmly, "for me or for anyone. Certainly not for a woman so badly in need of care and a child not ready yet for the world."

Not her mother. Maeve wants to sob in relief. That's not her mother.

"I may not be your mother, girl, but I spoke the truth," Scratch snarls. "Every word of it. You still failed, and everything that happens from here on in is your fault. Take the easy way. Surrender to death. I'll be merciful. I'll let you keep the child if you do."

She clutches the baby close to her heart, sure now that she's hers no matter how firmly Scratch denied it before. Maybe _because_ he so vehemently denied it, tried to make her put her down. She presses her lips to the soft spot on the tiny head, so gently, breathing in the smell of her. "Never," she whispers. Making deals with Scratch never ends well for anyone. She refuses to do so.

"Good girl," Cairpra approves. "You need to go now. This place isn't for you. You got lost, but you need to keep going. You need to return to the world again. Whatever reason you had to try to jump without training, it can't be worse than what Sinbad will do to himself without you."

Yes, she realizes that now. But she's so cold. So tired. She holds her baby close. "Can't we go back with you?"

"No, my dear, much as I would prefer it. You and your daughter need more than I alone can give if you're going to survive this. But you are not without help, without friends. And Scratch cannot touch you unless you let him. Do not give him the opening and he cannot take it."

The demon snarls, but Cairpra seems to be correct. He doesn't touch her.

"Where were you trying to go? I may be able to help you find your way."

"I don't know," she says, desperately holding back tears. "I was just trying to get away. Wishing for a sanctuary. My sister. Dim-Dim. You." Not her mother. Scratch chose the wrong shape if he wanted to truly convince her. She didn't entirely trust Máire from the first, but she'd go with Cairpra anywhere.

"You'll wish you took my offer before this is over." Scratch's voice lowers with portent as he vows. "And you will have an eternity to regret what I'm going to do to you and yours once you finally reach my afterlife." He vanishes into the darkness without a flourish.

Maeve tightens her hold on the child in her arms. "I don't understand," she says, her voice cracking. "Is Dermott really dead? Why were my daughter and I separated?"

"I wish I had answers for you. I'm sorry, child. Scratch is extremely powerful, though the ways in which he wields that power are constrained. All I know is that you don't belong here, and you will die if you remain too long. Go to your sister. She has more people and therefore more power at her disposal. She'll be better able to help you, and you will need a great deal of help when you return to the world."

"She hates me," Maeve says, her voice small as she huddles around her child in the freezing darkness.

"I don't know anything about that, but I know a crisis tends to eclipse petty arguments and differences. Trust me, Maeve. Go to your sister."

"How do I find her?"

"Listen with your heart. Take that child with you—don't let go. And Maeve? Do not ever attempt to travel without proper training again. You have a ship at your disposal, do you not? Legs, if nothing else? Use them. Don't make me track you down in the real afterlife to scold you again."

* * *

"Sinbad?"

He ignores the soft female voice. It doesn't matter. All that he cares about in this moment is wounding in return for his wounds. He launches himself at Doubar, but Rongar remains between them, large and solid and unmoving. He restrains his captain again, greater muscle and skill easily holding back Sinbad's grief-fueled fury.

"We've always been so careful with you!" Sinbad bellows over Rongar's shoulder as he struggles fruitlessly to reach his target. "Respected your feelings, tried not to make you feel stupid! But how idiotic can you get? Everyone else knew the truth, knew Maeve was carrying my child! Rongar knew almost from the first! Talia knew soon after she arrived! You were the only one who couldn't see what was right in front of you!"

Rongar reaches out, clasping Sinbad close, hard and brotherly. But he doesn't want his brothers, he wants his girls. The fire-haired sorceress he finally caught—or who finally caught him, he doesn't even know anymore—after so much struggle, so much effort. And the baby girl meant to save his soul, the daughter she carries.

Carried.

"Sinbad," the soft voice repeats, slightly louder. "I need—why are you covered in blood?"

His eyes slowly open, blinded by bloody tears as he shoves Rongar away. He stares dumbly at the small woman standing quietly next to Talia, her delicate form and short, tawny hair not registering in his mind. "They're dead. Gods, they're dead." He staggers at the abyss of this loss. In another moment he's going to fall in. He braces for the drop, the enveloping darkness.

"No, Sinbad. Breathe before you pass out." Wren reaches up, undaunted by the blood he's smeared across his face, and shakes his shoulder sharply. "Keely's with her now. She sent me for you because I have so little magic, barely enough to work the opals. We need to hurry. Every second counts. Shit, you look awful." She extends her hand to him.

His mind fights to comprehend. Maeve is gone. Firouz said so, and Firouz is never wrong. And also, "Antoine said—"

"I don't understand either, but Keely was very clear that we need to hurry," Wren says. "That girl is tougher than she knows and Keely caught her partway, pulled her in. Explanations will have to wait because I don't think Maeve can. She needs you."

Maeve needs him. Yes. That much registers through the fog in his brain, and that's enough. He'll go anywhere, do anything, for her. His lungs feel like they'll never expand again, his ribs squeezing down, preventing a good, solid breath. But through the stinging blur of blood and tears he knows Wren's face. She trusted him with her children. She won't lie to him.

"Take over." He lifts a hand for Rongar to take. The Moor clasps it, accepting command. "And get that traitor off my ship." Without another glance at Doubar, Sinbad releases his new second-in-command and grasps Wren's waiting hand firmly.


	32. Chapter 32

_A/N: Happy belated birthday to Dita/Pluto's Angel! This one came quick because it was 3/4 done already when I posted the last. I promise we will return to the Nomad while Sinbad and Maeve are out of commission, too, to see what's going on with the rest of the crew. Thank you for reading and reviewing!_

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

The familiar house at Breakwater surrounds Sinbad. A rush of cold air hits his skin, steadying him slightly. It's probably perfectly warm to Wren, but the transition from the stuffy bowels of his ship jars him. He rubs his leaking eyes impatiently on his shoulder and pushes open the door of Maeve's room, lurching through on unsteady feet. He thought he'd never see this place again after Antoine's last visit, but he blinks his vision clearer and enters the room.

She's here.

He's never been one for religion, but in this moment he swears he might start. He will thank every god personally and by name for that beautiful form lying still on her bed, the spill of very familiar, very adored red hair falling over her sharp shoulder.

"Is she alive?" Swift strides bring him to her bedside. "Tell me she's alive." He shoves past Keely, Niall, and a young girl he doesn't recognize to get to her.

"Watch it," Keely snaps. "No shoving—I'm just as pregnant as she is. And of course she's alive. Why would I bring you here to wring your hands over a corpse?"

He settles lightly on the edge of the mattress, terrified to disturb her, to touch her. The last time he reached for her she disappeared under his fingers. But he can't keep away, no matter how afraid he is. His uninjured hand shakes as his fingertips feather over the sharp angle of her bare white shoulder. She's so cold. So pale, like the fall of winter light on snow. But she's here. She's solid and real, and she doesn't disappear when his fingers find her skin. Dried blood still coats her lips, her chin. A puffy, red-violet bruise mars her perfect face, spreading from that high, delicate cheekbone to the muscle of her jaw.

They've undressed her, exposing her broken body to the light, and Sinbad feels an intense urge to wrap her tightly in anything warm he can find. She looks like death, so still and silent, white as the linen sheets under her. So passive, something wholly antithetical to Maeve's being. She's nothing but sickly-pale skin stretched tight over bone, save for the swell of her pregnant stomach, painted horribly with the malignant evidence of Doubar's brutal attack, the bloody bloom of a spreading bruise so stark against the deathly pallor of her skin. He leans forward and drops his forehead to rest lightly against hers, his uninjured hand cradling her bruised cheek softly. She's so cold. As cold as that place that's not a place, the place between worlds his body remembers too well.

The touch of her skin calms and re-centers him, the gnawing, grating pain within him fading just a little. It's enough. She's alive, and they're together again. He's touching her. Scratch can't hurt her here. Rumina can't see her. And Doubar is very, very far away.

"Maeve." He strokes her skin, closing his eyes for a long moment as he presses his forehead to hers, feeling the light feathers of her breath against his lips. He kisses her softly, tasting neither the blood dried on her mouth nor on his, only the swell of relief inside him as the panic flowing through his body eases, its flavor changing slightly. They're together now, as they're supposed to be. She's alive.

But will she stay that way?

"She's freezing." His voice cracks. He clears his throat. She shouldn't be alive, but Wren was right—she's tougher than even she knows. "Why isn't she covered?" He moves to wrap her in the white linen sheet, but Keely blocks his hand.

"Because I'm working. You had your moment. Now look at me." She unceremoniously hauls him upright by the shoulder of his shirt, frowning as she inspects him with those unnatural green eyes. She says nothing about the blood on his face, in his hair. "So that's how she did it. Fuck."

"Did what? She's so cold." He moves to cover her again. He's glad Keely removed that awful leather cincher—which he plans to burn if given half a chance—but she shouldn't be bare like this. She needs warmth. He's sick with relief that she lives, but also sick with new worry. He hasn't seen her undressed since before Rumina's spell. She's a skeleton, save for the tight swell of her belly. That bloody splotch of bruise terrifies him, such stark evidence of Doubar's fury. He stares at the repulsive color.

"Being cold is the least of her problems. I can only deal with one at a time. Maybe not even that." Keely wets a clean cloth in a bowl of steaming water and draws it gently between Maeve's legs, her touch swift but tender. The cloth comes away streaked with bitter red.

"What does that mean?" Sinbad demands. Nothing good, he knows that much. Icy fingers of fear curl along his spine and threaten to stop his lungs again.

"Is she still bleeding?" Wren asks from the doorway.

"Yes, but not so bad as before." Keely drops the cloth on a pile of others on the floor, ignoring Sinbad's question. "Shit! I need another energy source. He's her _céile_ so the obvious choice, which is why I had you bring him, but he's already sapped."

"I am not," Sinbad protests.

"I could go get another sailor," Wren says hesitantly, shooing several little dark heads away from the doorway. "But they were all fighting, and no one else has been here before. It might take some time to convince them."

"There's no time!"

"I'm fine," Sinbad insists, pressing his unhurt palm to Maeve's, linking their fingers. "Whatever you need, use me. Please." He'll do anything, be anything. Whatever they need. Whatever will keep Maeve and his daughter alive. He can't drag his eyes from the terrible red-violet blotch over her belly, the wound Doubar put there. His brother hurt them, Maeve and his daughter both, and the reality of that hasn't quite sunk in yet. Later. He can wrestle with it later. Once he knows they're safe.

"Shut your mouth," Keely snaps. "Have you no mirror, no one honest enough to tell you how awful you look? Yes, you've obviously been brawling, but besides that. You're nearly as bad off as she is, and if I kill you trying to save her Maeve will never forgive me." She looks at him impatiently, and her eyes fall on his hand entwined with Maeve's. Her breath catches lightly in her throat. Her head tilts to the side as she studies the bracelet on his wrist. It glows softly, as it always does here, a reaction to the powerful magical shields on the islet.

Keely's chest lifts as she inhales sharply. "Now there's an idea." Her expression hardens as she makes her decision.

"I don't know where it came from." Sinbad trusts her. She can do whatever she wants, so long as she saves Maeve and his daughter. But she has to know the risks. "It just appeared one day. I don't know anything more."

"I know one thing more," she says, nodding at Niall and the strange girl. "It's about to save Maeve's life." Her eyes lock squarely with his. "Lie down. I've never done this before and I don't have time for explanations. Keep hold of her. Do not let go, do you hear me? You wear the bracelet, which means you're the conduit. I don't know what that will feel like. You may be sick. You may faint. Whatever. Just don't let go, and don't disturb me."

He won't. He has a million questions and none of this makes sense at all, but this is not the time to ask and he's never letting go of Maeve again, regardless. He settles himself without complaint on Maeve's far side and rests his arm gently across her torso, below her breasts and above her belly, too scared to move her, to draw her into his arms. He conforms to her instead, pressing the length of his body along her side, lifting his head to watch Keely's preparations. He still wants to wrap her in layers and layers of soft, warm cloth, but he resists the urge. He can wait. If Keely says he needs to, he can wait.

"Quickly now," Keely says. "Conventional cures won't help anymore, they're both too far gone. We're working with an artifact whose properties are unknown, but we don't have a choice." She places a hand gently on Maeve's head, cupping the crown firmly. "I need everyone's help if we're going to do this. All the energy we have. Niall. Cara, put yourself at the foot of the bed." The strange girl crawls onto the foot of the bed as directed and wraps her hands gently around Maeve's bare ankles. She's maybe eleven or twelve, Sinbad thinks, and her face is horribly scarred.

"You, too, _mo chailín_," Niall says gently, beckoning Wren close. "I know you haven't much magic but we need all the help we can get. Where's Bran?"

"Here, da." Niall's eldest boy slips through the doorway.

"We need you. I'd take your brothers, too, were I sure of their concentration. Go sit by Cara, please."

The boy willingly climbs onto the bed and settles himself next to the girl with the scarred face. She relinquishes an ankle and he lifts Maeve's foot into his lap, securing his hands around it gently. The adults line up at the side of the bed and rest their hands on her as well. Sinbad knows Nessa is no longer in the house but he has a moment to wonder that Antoine isn't here. He was violently angry at Maeve when they last met, even disowned her, but Sinbad didn't realize he was angry enough to withhold crucial aid that could potentially save her life, her child's life.

A ripple of language Sinbad doesn't understand passes Keely's lips, like the swift rush of icy-cold snowmelt down a rocky ledge, the sound of their homeland, rough and sharp, yet not unsweet.

Sinbad tries to swallow and nearly chokes, his throat too dry to function. He's frozen with fear as he holds Maeve's still body, watching the dull gleam of his bracelet against her icy skin. Fear never freezes him like this, but never has so much been at stake. Maeve. His prickly sorceress, his sweet fire. The hollow ache in his gut churns. He presses his palm to her skin, fully aware he's trying to soothe himself and not her. Wherever she is—her mind, her spirit, the essence of her—she can't feel him. But he can hold tight to her body, can will every scrap of energy in his being to her, to his daughter, as they fight for life.

Keely's voice continues, vowels flowing like wind on rock, consonants landing like rain on grass. He doesn't bother trying to make sense of the unknown language, focusing instead on the woman in his arms, the bracelet on his wrist. It flares to life, pulsing several times along with the swift cadence of his heartbeat before the light steadies, pure and strong.

"Neat," Bran whispers, watching with big eyes as the colors shift and swirl, painting the little room with streaks of vibrant light.

"Focus," Niall says softly. "Close your eyes if you must."

The boy obediently closes his eyes, his hands clutched around Maeve's foot.

Keely's volume grows, and Sinbad's head swims. He holds Maeve tighter to him as the room spins and pitches violently around him. The others sit or stand steadily—there's no real movement, no earthquake or landslide. It's all in his head, but that doesn't stop his stomach from lurching dangerously. He's never been seasick in his life but his belly threatens revolt as the room dances. He slits his eyes and grits his teeth through the sensation. His bracelet feels warm against his skin, not cold like metal. The glowing colors converge to form a pure white light so bright his eyes water anew. Slowly it bleeds into him, soaking into his skin like wine into cloth. A rush of energy fills him as the light does, a heady drug sweeter than wine, stronger by far than Ant's whiskey. It makes him want to climb mountains, makes him want to jump from the summit, convinced, in this instant, that he would fly.

"Steady." Niall's voice floats to him through the rush. "Stay still. Don't let go of her."

He won't. Not ever. Doubar may have attacked her but the true fault is his. He will not make the same mistake again. He presses his mouth to her sharp shoulder, breathes the strong scent of magic and, under it, the sweetness of her skin. His Maeve. His girls. He'll do anything for them, for her and this child. Holding onto them isn't a burdensome task, it's a gift, something he's been denied for far too long.

His head spins even faster, his vision blurring, but through it he watches, fascinated, as the warm white energy completely fills him, nose to toes, and slowly, slowly, overflows into Maeve. Everywhere he touches her, the light slowly spreads from his body to hers, threads of magic like wisps of cloud, moving much slower than it filled him. She glows silver where the light spreads, and her breath catches on her lips as the first taste of it touches her chest, her lungs.

The rush that filled him flows away, and he's no longer sure whether he's spinning or falling, lying on a feather mattress or hovering in the air above it. He welcomes the chaos, because of what it means. He's the conduit, Keely said, linking Maeve to the power in his bracelet. He'll gladly be that for her, and more. He'll be whatever she needs him to be. Whatever it takes to save her life. He holds her tightly and wills her everything he has in him as Keely's prediction proves right and, for the second time today, his mind sinks away.

* * *

He wakes abruptly, weary and cold, colder than he's ever felt in his life. Colder than he thought possible. His body aches, wracked with cold that's turned to pain, and he can't feel his feet or his fingers. He jerks his dominant hand down to feel his toes without thinking and bites back a yelp of pain. But it obeyed him. It moved.

He forces his eyes open, blinking blearily in what feels like frigid air. Fuck, he's so cold. Is this how Maeve has felt since she lost most of the lean muscle on her frame? When he blinks his eyelids feel as if they're coated in tiny daggers of ice. But when his eyes finally focus, it's on a mass of tangled red curls nestled against his face, obstructing his view of the rest of the room, and yes. Yes, that's perfect. Exactly what he wants.

As his senses return to him he hears the soft sound of her sleeping breaths, long, deep, and untroubled. His icy nose holds the gentle scent of her, sweet rain and new green things, the memory of salt sea air still awash in her hair. The room is dim, lit by a murky evening sky pouring rain and a single light-globe on her desk. He raises his head on a weary neck that doesn't want to hold it, glancing past the ruby glow of her curls. The room is empty, the door shut and latched. Whatever Keely and the others did, it's over.

And Maeve lives. He fishes his arm out from under a heavy pile of blankets, his limb shaking with the effort. His bracelet glows dully, just as it always has here on Breakwater. Dim washes of watercolor light paint the walls and Maeve's pale skin as he lifts the bracelet free of the blankets for a moment. It doesn't look any different, at least at first. But as he watches, his tired eyes detect a faint, slow throb, a pulsing of its light.

It's breathing with her.

Under other circumstances he might be repulsed. Horrified, even. Not now. Keely did this, tied the power in his bracelet to her, using him as the conduit. He feels so very tired and so very cold, but Maeve lives and that far outweighs any discomfort. He presses his mouth gently to her bare shoulder. A calm peace settles over him as he burrows back under the blankets, seeking warmth. Maeve is his _chéile_, bound to him in ways neither of them completely understand. It's only right that he's the link for this power that saved her life. He'd have given her his own body's energy happily, every drop he has, even if it meant his death.

She's unconscious still, deeply asleep, resting quietly on her back as he readjusts his frozen body and curls around her once more. It's difficult to tell in the dim golden light, but he thinks her color has improved. Someone cleaned the blood from her face, a small mercy. He winds his body along hers, molding himself to conform to the shape of her. Someone dressed her while he was unconscious, encasing her body in a long, shapeless garment of soft, thick lambskin, the fluffy fleece turned inward, against her skin. He runs a finger along the collar, feeling the wool, soft and springy, not scratchy at all. The front remains unlaced and the collar has fallen to one side, baring her sharp shoulder. He kisses it, running his cold nose along her sweet skin, the tip of his tongue dipping into the severe hollow of her collarbone. She's still cold, too, despite the heavy clothing and the pile of blankets heaped over them. But he has to have faith. Keely wouldn't have left them alone if she was still in danger, would she?

He remains in his own clothes, though someone removed his boots. He wants to be surprised that anyone managed that without waking him, but he has to be realistic—he's wearier now than he thinks he's ever been. Keely could have trussed him up like a fatted calf ready for a feast and he wouldn't have stirred.

Thoughts of Keely bring with them countless questions he can't answer. Antoine told Maeve she wasn't part of this family anymore. He was very clear about that. But Keely welcomed her, fought to save her sputtering life. Even brought Sinbad to her side, something he will forever be grateful for. His crew all but convinced him she was dead, that she tried to run for her life but didn't ultimately have the energy to retreat successfully. And they were right, it seems, except that Keely caught her. Saved her. So whatever's going on in this house, it's not as clear-cut as he and Maeve assumed.

He wraps himself around her, conforming to her sleeping body, willing her whatever dregs of heat and comfort he can possibly give. Fuck, he's so cold. He's past shivering, which he didn't know was possible. But more than his own warmth he aches to see her cheeks turn sweetly pink again, as they do when kissed by the heat of his southern sun. She's so pale, and looks so sick. She shouldn't be alive—Firouz wasn't wrong about that. She had neither the energy nor the training to do what she did. But she did it. She's here.

He rests his head on the pillow once more, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest through half-closed eyes. His fingers are too numb to feel her breath but he lightly touches her lip anyway, careful of the swollen spot where it looks like she bit herself. At least the blood's been cleaned away. He'd rise and do it himself no matter how tired he is if it hadn't.

His sorceress. He blinks slowly, watching her sleep. She looks so sick, but even that can't wholly disguise her fierce beauty. She's by far the bravest person he's ever met, facing everything Scratch and Rumina have thrown at her with her characteristic stormy-sweet fire. Never once has she faltered. Never once has she backed down, attempted to desert him. He believes firmly that she never will. Antoine hurt her badly, but even he couldn't break her.

Though Doubar tried.

He holds her tighter, burying his face in the fall of her hair, the bright strands glowing deeper red in the dim golden light, crimson and ruby, deep vermilion and almost black, like the deepest drops of heart's blood. She inhales, a long, slow draw of her lungs, and her head shifts toward him. Her eyes do not open and he knows she won't wake, but the touch of her cool forehead against his feels nonetheless like a gift, one he doesn't deserve. She's alive, but not thanks to him. She saved herself by retreating from Doubar's attack, and in turn Keely saved her from the consequences of that terrible flight. He merely happens to wear the bracelet that provided the needed power. He's glad he can give this much, but he will never forgive himself for trusting Doubar too far, for not seeing the warning signs for what they were. He's as responsible for her state as his brother is.

"My girls," he whispers, touching Maeve's cheek, not quite daring to put his hands near the swell of her belly. She's so delicate, and he saw the bright bruise already forming under her skin, the blood Keely wiped away. He doesn't know exactly what it means, but he's not stupid. Unborn babies are fragile things, their loss tragically common. But he can't lose his daughter now. Not after Maeve fought so hard to keep her alive despite everything Rumina and Scratch have done. Poison. Dark magic. He needs it all to just stop. Not for the sake of his soul, but for Maeve's. His daughter's. They all need a little peace. He will do anything, anything at all, if Antoine lets them remain here. The spells on the little islet can protect Maeve better than anything else he knows of, and she needs her sister's skill. Keely proved that today. He would have lost his entire family without her: Maeve, his daughter, and his brother. As it stands, in this moment he's only lost Doubar, and Doubar did that to himself the moment he put his hands on Maeve.

The soft sound of the door stirs Sinbad from his dark thoughts. He doesn't want anyone but Maeve right now, but he refuses to say so. These people saved her life.

Wren's tawny-gold head appears around the door. "Good, you're awake." Her soft voice matches her relieved smile. "I was afraid I'd have to roust you." She pushes the door the rest of the way open and steps through, Conall on her hip. At least, Sinbad's pretty sure that's Con. He stares at the kid. For him, it's only been a couple of weeks since he saw the baby last. For Con, it's been moons. He's bigger, has more hair, and looks shockingly older than he did before. "You can come in," Wren says, turning to beckon two small forms behind her. "But just for a moment. Maeve is very sick, and she needs her rest."

"Why roust me?" Sinbad forces his aching body to sit, instantly on alert. "I'm not leaving her," he says flatly. "I'll pay for our keep. I'll work for it. I'll do whatever you want, but she's in no condition to be moved and I'm not leaving her."

Wren stares at him. "What are you going on about? Who said anything about leaving? As if Keely would let you." She snorts lightly. Mia and Rory creep around the doorway, Antoine's daughter a half-step in front of her little male shadow.

"I can't leave her," Sinbad insists. "Please." Fuck, he hurts. Why does everything have to hurt these days? He usually brushes off the aftereffects of a battle with no further thought, but today he feels like a wrung dishcloth, as if everything inside him has been twisted and squeezed and battered until he has nothing left.

"Nobody's asking you to," Wren assures him, shepherding the children to the edge of the bed. They stare wordlessly at their sleeping aunt. Sinbad wonders what they've been told. It's possible they know more than he does at this point. "Hand?" Wren holds hers out.

He offers his uninjured one, watching Mia's keen eyes stare at the glowing bracelet on his wrist.

Wren squeezes his fingers lightly. "You're still freezing. Keely said you probably would be. She ordered me to make sure you had a hot bath and some solid food before nightfall. She and Niall are wiped, but Mia can heat the water for you."

"I'm very good at that," Mia agrees. Her little hand reaches for the curve of Maeve's belly, hidden under layers and layers of blankets, but Wren guides her gently away.

"Not there, dove. You can pet her hair or her shoulder if you want, but her baby needs quiet for now."

"Is auntie broken?" Rory asks, his dark eyes huge in his little face.

"She certainly was when she arrived. We did what we could. Even Bran helped. Now we have to wait." Wren touches his cheek gently.

"Will she get better?"

"We hope so. But she's very sick. We have to be gentle with her, do you hear me? Mia, you too. No climbing on her, no pulling at her."

"Will she break again?"

"If you're rough with her, she might. And Keely says people are harder to heal a second time, or a third."

Sinbad knows this much, too. A broken nose may heal straight the first time, but not the second. He watches with caution as Mia pats Maeve's shoulder, but her little hand, though dirty, remains gentle, and she does not attempt to touch her belly again.

"Did she die?" Rory asks.

"No, dove." Wren rolls her eyes where her son can't see. "Death is beyond breaking. It's...a break Keely and your da can't fix. A break no one can fix."

Mia's quick eyes alight on Sinbad's face and widen dramatically. For a moment he's sure he's terrified her with the streaks of blood now dried on his skin and in his hair, but she leans toward him, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. "Did _you_ die?"

"Sorry," Wren says, glancing at Sinbad. "Little minds have trouble with this concept."

"Big ones, too." He had a lot of trouble with it himself earlier today, his mind refusing to accept a reality in which Maeve was gone, permanently removed from his life. "I didn't die," he tells the expectant children, his voice croaking out of him. "But it honestly feels like it."

"You'll feel better after some hot water, I promise," Wren says.

"No." He shakes his head adamantly. A wash of dizziness rolls over him at the movement. "I'm not leaving her." He's grateful for everything Maeve's people have done, but if they think he's moving from this spot they're crazy.

"Why?" Mia stares at him. "She won't disappear."

He can't help the ruthless twist of his mouth, though he manages to hold back the bitter laugh that wants to burst from his lungs. Maeve did disappear the last time he left her, vanished a heartbeat before he could touch her, protect her. And he can't go through that again. He just can't.

"Hush," Wren says, bouncing Con lightly in her arms. "It's been a very long day for everyone. Sinbad, I know you're not returning to your ship, but she'll take no harm in the time it takes you to warm up and wash off that blood. I'll stay right here with her, I promise. She'll be fine."

His hand finds Maeve's under the blankets. She's so cold. "Can we bathe her?" She could use it even more than he. He aches to see that lovely pink flush warm her cheeks again. If Mia can heat the water, he'd love nothing more than to hold Maeve's body gently as her skin thaws.

"Keely says it's not safe to move her. She managed to stop the bleeding for now, but it could easily start again. She has to remain still." Wren sounds regretful. "I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?" He squeezes Maeve's cold hand as tightly as he dares. "What does the bleeding mean? I need some answers. I don't understand anything that's happened since she left the Nomad."

Wren's answering smile is understanding. "I think I know even less than you do. Keely and Niall are asleep, Bran and Cara, too. I don't expect to see any of them until morning, but I'm sure Keely will explain what she can then."

No one has mentioned Antoine yet. Sinbad swallows back that question, but he can't swallow his fear for his daughter so easily. "You have children," he persists. "You must know what's wrong. Why was she bleeding? What does it mean?" He aches to touch the swell of Maeve's belly, the physical proof of his daughter's existence, but he was too scared to do so even before Wren warned Mia away. Now he's doubly afraid.

"I don't know anything about it the way Keely does. All I can tell you is that Maeve was having pains when she arrived, and it's far too soon for that. Keel said there was some sort of rupture. I don't know what that means. She and Niall were able to stop it, but once these things happen the likelihood of them happening again is much greater. I do know that. Keel says we have to be very, very careful with her, and watch for worsening signs. I'm sorry—she'll explain better herself. In the morning."

Sinbad stares at the rounded curve of Maeve's belly below the blankets, feeling the feathers of panic begin to unfurl in his gut again. It's far, far too soon for his daughter to make her arrival—she's not due until after Samhain, and right now it's still late summer. He's not clear on the exact date, especially after Rumina's spell stole three moons from them, but he knows it's far too early. She won't stand a chance.

"It's my fault," he says numbly. He's gripping her hand hard but he can't feel it. "I left her alone." A choice he will never forgive himself for, no matter what happens. Nor will he forgive Doubar for how he feels right now, how Maeve is going to feel when she wakes.

"I don't know that that makes it your fault. You can't be everywhere at once, and you have a ship to run," Wren says, glancing at the small children listening with wide eyes. "You didn't hit her. I know you never would. If you need to blame someone, blame the man who did."

Sinbad shuts his mouth. Rory adores Doubar, and Mia knows him from the adventure stories Maeve tells. He will not hurt the children by admitting the truth where they can hear it, but he can't lie to himself so easily. Doubar did this. Doubar hurt her. And he let it happen. He inhales deeply. The air feels like ice in his lungs. "Is she okay?" he asks, struggling to push away his fears for the future and focus purely on this moment. "My daughter. Is she safe? Is she hurting?"

"She's sleeping," Mia says matter-of-factly, twisting one of Maeve's bright curls in her fingers.

"Probably," Wren agrees, shrugging at Sinbad's cocked eyebrow. "Just like her mama. She's alive, if that's what you mean. I felt her kicking when I was dressing Maeve."

"Felt her?" He stares. "You mean she's moving in there?"

"Duh," Mia says, giving him a pitying look. He's a little offended at seeing that expression on a four-year-old's face. "Don't you know anything?"

"Mia." Wren taps her shoulder sharply. "Be nice. Most men don't know anything about babies. Your da and uncle are exceptions."

Mia's pitying face shifts to her aunt. "If they make them they should know about them."

"Most of the world does not agree." Wren hitches the baby higher in her arms. "Sinbad, truly. Go wash off that blood and warm up. I'll stay with her, I promise. You're connected to Maeve closely right now, as her _céile_ and as the conduit for your bracelet's magic. Once you're feeling better, she will, too."

Sinbad looks at her with suspicion. This is perhaps the only argument that might move him, and he's dubious of its authenticity because he suspects Wren knows it.

"I promise," she repeats. "And I'll bring you some solid food after. The gods know you need it."

Still he hesitates. He just got her back. He's not particularly willing to leave her again, even for the promise of warmth.

"You should come," Mia agrees, and she reaches for him. She's too short to touch, but her wings whir at her back and she lifts herself over Maeve's sleeping form, latching a little hand onto Sinbad's sleeve and tugging firmly. "Fin's cold. She doesn't like it. If you warm up, she'll warm up."

"Fin?" Sinbad helplessly lets himself be dragged from the bed, unsure what else to do when confronted by such a small child so convinced of her own veracity.

"Maeve's baby. Fin." Mia returns to the floor but tugs on him again as he tucks the blankets tight around Maeve's sleeping form. They covered her with a soft sheet of white linen, two blankets of thick wool, and a heavy layer of feather-filled cotton, blue instead of red but otherwise identical to the one left behind on the Nomad. He'd consider it a trifle excessive if not for the way the air knifes his skin when he crawls from the bed, the temperature of Maeve's cheek against his palm when he cups it for a moment.

"Fin's a hero's name, not a girl's name," Rory says.

"It is now." Mia sticks her tongue out at him. "She's sleeping, but she's cold and her leg hurts. And she's hungry. I'm hungry, too, auntie."

"It's not time to eat quite yet," Wren says, shrugging helplessly when Sinbad looks at her. She clearly takes no responsibility for what comes out of Mia's mouth. Nor should she, he supposes. That's Keely's kid, not hers. "Go help Sinbad fill the tub and heat the water for him, please. It needs to be hot. Hotter than you like. His body's very confused after all it's been through and needs some help warming up."

"Then will it be time to eat?"

"When he comes back, yes."

"Will auntie wake up if I kiss her?" Rory asks, considering the woman wrapped to her chin in blankets. "Like a sleeping princess in a story?"

"No, my love." Wren's smile is tinged with sorrow. "Thank you for the thought, but a kiss won't cure this hurt. Keely says she won't wake until tomorrow at the earliest. She needs her sleep."

Rory scowls. "It works in the stories."

"You can give her a kiss if you like, but real life doesn't work like stories do, I'm afraid."

"Why not?" Rory whines. "I like stories. I like happy endings."

"I know you do. But in the real world there are no happy endings because nothing ever really ends. It just changes, like the seasons." She touches his upper back lightly with her free hand. "Come. Kiss your aunt if you must, and you can help me watch her while Sinbad washes."

* * *

Mia obeys Wren's request to the letter, heating the tub of water to near scalding. After she leaves Sinbad hastily removes his clothes, intent on getting this over with as quickly as possible. Leaving that room, removing himself from the sight of Maeve, disturbs him even more than he thought it would. He watches the soft pulsing of his bracelet's light, slow and unhurried, matching the rhythm of her breaths. It calms him slightly, but not as much as the touch of her skin.

He stares at his body as he undresses, shocked by the change his eyes see, the change he didn't feel as it happened unless blacking out counts. Keely was right. He's never been as bulky with muscle as Rongar, but he's always been solidly strong. He doesn't look as bad as Maeve does, but he's lost a good deal of that muscle mass, and as he inspects his body in the steam-filled little bathing room he's not sure when exactly it happened. He wipes condensation from the little mirror and inspects his face. His cheeks are sunken, yes, and he wears dark circles under his eyes. But he can't say how long he's been like this. Talia and Doubar have told him he looks terrible since Rumina's spell took three moons from them, but he figured it was just an aftereffect of the dark magic, or the tension of watching Maeve deteriorate before his eyes. He knows he didn't look like this, though. This he would have noticed, even without a mirror. He's weak and shaky as he steps numbly into the water, holding the edge of the tub for support.

And fuck, that's as painful as it was after the _teas_, though for an entirely different reason. He hisses as the scalding water envelops him, and he tries to spring free but his body won't obey his commands. He sets his teeth and endures the pain. He's never been this cold before, never felt the torture of limbs returning to life. It's a strange, burning sort of fire that feels like hundreds of knives stabbing through his skin, deep into his flesh as the hot water forces feeling back into his fingers, his feet. He stares through watery eyes at his dominant hand, injured past use by his fight with Doubar—and the wall of the Nomad—but better now, though not what he'd call healed. He flexes his fingers, balling his hand into a light fist. It hurts, but there's no more crackling sensation and his body obeys him. Whatever he broke inside, he knows it should still be broken. Keely did this, or his bracelet, or a combination of the two. He observes it under the waterline, the knuckles split by the Nomad's wall and his brother's teeth, the terrible, swollen bruising that tells him as clearly as his previous inability to make a fist that he broke something. He doesn't care. Even now, knowing Maeve and his daughter live, he wants to beat Doubar's face still harder.

He forces thoughts of Doubar away and grabs the cake of soap, washing quick and hard once feeling returns to his fingers and the pain of thawing eases, allowing him to grip and move once more. This grief is too raw, too close still for him to consider. Rongar has charge of the Nomad. Rongar will keep everything together until Sinbad can figure out what to do next. Right now, all his energy and all his focus are on the two lives across the hallway, as it should have been from the beginning. If he had placed their welfare at the fore from the first, as he should have, they wouldn't be in this situation now. Maeve would be safe and healthy, his daughter likewise. But he didn't. He paid no heed to Doubar's worsening bitterness, and didn't take proper precautions against Scratch and Rumina. He let this happen. Now he may pay the price. Wren didn't say it straight out, but she didn't have to—they're not out of danger. He could still lose everything. The power in his bracelet stopped the immediate emergency, but that doesn't mean Maeve and his daughter are out of danger.

Even as he thinks it, he sees the light in his bracelet throb. It pulses quick and fast, and his heart jolts in tandem. Something's wrong. He pulls his aching body from the water, dousing the room as he grabs for a drying cloth and wrenches open the door.

The air outside the humid bathing room knifes him, but he ignores the chill as he tucks the towel around his waist and pushes into Maeve's room. Wren sits on the edge of the bed obstructing his sight, but Sinbad can see Maeve's covered feet moving, can hear the frantic rasp of her breaths.

"Let go!" she begs, her body jerking as she kicks futilely at the heavy pile of blankets weighing her down.

"Be still!" Wren insists, holding her firmly by her shoulders. Ordinarily Sinbad is sure Maeve would be able to shake off the smaller woman without any problem, but not today. "You have to calm down!"

"Maeve." He pushes gently between them, and Wren relinquishes her spot on the edge of the bed willingly, though she hovers close.

"She has to calm down. She has to stop moving," she says. "She wasn't supposed to wake up at all."

"Get Keely." He doesn't care if she's sleeping. This is too dangerous to let continue, and he's done taking chances. "Maeve, listen to me. Look at me. It's Sinbad." He presses his forehead to hers, using his body to push her gently back on the bed. Her hands clutch his shoulders as she inhales, breathing him in. "Good. Just relax. Keely's coming. You're safe. You're safe."

She shakes her head desperately, her eyes opening even as her hands slide on his wet skin. "Fin," she says. "She was right here! Cairpra said not to let go! Where is she?"

He hears the swift sound of bare footsteps on wooden floorboards, and an instant later Keely's sharp voice sounds. "That's enough! Maeve, I will put you back to sleep myself if I have to, but I'm very tired and I'd rather not. Don't make me. Lie still. Now."

Sinbad isn't sure he'd be willing to disobey that voice, tired and angry as it is. Maeve stops moving, to his relief, but her frightened breaths, ice-cold on his skin, don't ease. "I just had her! Don't take her away!" Her voice breaks and Sinbad's sure his heart does, too.

"Nobody's taken anyone anywhere," Keely says. "What are you on about? You must have been dreaming, _l__eannán_."

"She's here." Sinbad doesn't bother questioning his daughter's name anymore. Mia knows it. Maeve knows it. That's good enough for him. "She's right here, where she should be." He touches the curve of her belly.

"No." Her eyes are wet when he draws away far enough to see her. She shakes her head fretfully. "She was in my arms! Scratch tried to take her away, tried to separate us, but she cried and I found her."

"Of course you did." He'll agree to anything, anything she says, to calm her down. She's frantic, and he's positive it's not good for her or the baby. "You'd find her anywhere. I know you'd never give up. Breathe, please. Fuck, you're so cold."

"She got colder after you left," Wren says, sounding beyond troubled. On her shoulder, Con whimpers. "That's not how it's supposed to work, but she was shivering and her lips turned blue. I was almost about to go get you again, but then she woke."

Keely curses. "I knew mucking with that bracelet wasn't a great idea, but fuck if I know what else we could have done. She wouldn't have survived without it."

As long as Maeve recovers, Sinbad is sure they can deal with the side effects. He kisses her mouth softly, tasting the bitterness of her fear on her breath. "It's okay, _mo chailín_," he says, tracing the sharp line of her jaw with his fingers. "Just breathe for me. Here. She's right here." He finds her hand under the blankets and presses it to her belly.

She clutches the curve of her belly with both arms, one over, one under, blinking with confusion as her mind visibly struggles to understand. "No," she whispers. "It wasn't a dream. I _held_ her. Ask Cairpra."

"Cairpra isn't here. Do you know where you are, sweetling?"

And, for the first time, he feels it. Under his palm, pressed close against the skin of Maeve's belly, he feels his daughter move. He can't describe it—it's like his heart shatters and heals again instantly, like he's being pulled to pieces but simultaneously cured. Maeve's breath catches, and he's sure he's not breathing at all.

"What's wrong?" Keely demands. "Do you hurt? You were having contractions before. Are you again?"

Maeve ignores her.

"She's moving," Sinbad whispers. His daughter's really alive in there. He can feel it.

Keely curses and shoves him firmly out of the way. "Move," she snaps. "You can be as weepy as you please once I figure out what the hell's going on." She pulls Maeve's blankets down, revealing the bare swell of her belly, where the long skirt of her shapeless clothing has ridden up. Her hands touch lightly, with the confidence born of long experience. "Maeve, answer me this time. Are you having pains?"

She shakes her head numbly. "But I held her. I did. Scratch separated us, but I found her." She scowls.

"I believe you." Keely pulls her clothing back down her legs, and Sinbad replaces the pile of blankets. He watches as, in a rare tender moment, Keely puts her arms around her sister and kisses her. "I don't put anything past Scratch, and you've obviously been through hell."

"Not exactly." Maeve sniffs and wipes her eyes on her sister's shoulder. "But I thought I was there."

Keely pulls back. "No doubt. You weren't supposed to wake. Not for quite a while. I'd be mad at you for besmirching my skill, but I choose to blame that damn bracelet instead."

Maeve frowns. "What bracelet? I left mine."

"I know, and I'm going to sew it to your skin next time I get the chance. Solder it to you. What in the world possessed you to try to travel without it?"

Maeve blinks, and Sinbad can see the moment her memory returns to her, those last seconds on the Nomad rising before her eyes. "A fight," she says, her whisper barely audible.

"Well, if you'd been wearing your bracelet like you should, you would have been able to get away without nearly killing yourself. As it is, I had to grab you as I felt you near. You wouldn't have made it on your own."

"I know," Maeve says, and in those two words Sinbad hears how scared she must have been as she fought her way here, however it happened. She knows she's not ready for magic that advanced, but she's not good at admitting it. That she does now speaks to her fear. She may not know exactly what's happened, but she knows how close she came to dying.

"Wren," Keely says, "let's have some food, since we're all so wide awake. Maybe we can figure out what the hell is going on."

"I can help," Sinbad says, reluctant to leave Maeve but eager to be of assistance.

"You absolutely will not. If crossing the hall for a bath turned her blue and woke her up, you're not going downstairs," Keely says firmly.

"You don't know—"

"I do. There was no other possible trigger." Keely strokes Maeve's forehead gently. "You can go put your clothes on—in fact, I'd really rather you did. Linen's sheer when wet, I can now see that you were cut as an infant, and that's much more than I care to know about you. But you can't go further than that, at least not until I figure out what's going on."

He goes, but only to grab his clothes from across the hall. When he returns Wren and the children are gone but Keely remains, sinking slowly into the wooden chair from Maeve's desk, drawn close to the bedside.

"If you're awake," he says, pulling his _sirwal_ back on, "I'd really like some answers." He's not cold anymore after the searing heat of that bath, but Maeve seems colder than ever and he wants to know why.

"I would, too." Keely stretches her legs out in front of her, slouching down low in the chair, her hands under the bulge of her belly. It's considerably bigger than Maeve's, even hidden by the draped folds of her loose fawn-colored dress. He returns to his spot on Maeve's far side, putting her between them, tucking his body close to hers.

"I want to sit up," Maeve says, even as she fights back a yawn.

"You can't. Maybe in a few days if all seems well. Until then, you need to remain flat. I'm not kidding." Keely rubs her own belly lightly. "You have no idea how close you came to losing your daughter today."

"I do," Maeve says, stubborn despite her exhaustion. She presses close to Sinbad, hiding her cheek in his shoulder. "Scratch took her away, I told you. He tried to make me leave without her, but I wouldn't put her down and Cairpra knew better."

"No, I mean your placenta tried to detach from the wall. You were bleeding and contracting when I pulled you in." Keely rubs her eyes. She hasn't lost weight as Sinbad has, at least not that he can see, but she looks as tired as he feels. He'd say to hell with food and opt for sleep instead, but he wants answers badly. "You were three-quarters dead and so was your daughter. Niall and I were able to stabilize you basically by throwing all the power we had at you. I made Wren go for Sinbad, hoping to use his energy to do the more delicate work of stopping the bleeding and healing whatever else was wrong. You cracked three teeth, by the way. I fixed them. Long story short, we ended up having to use that bracelet of his as a power source instead."

"Why?" Maeve presses closer, one hand slipping under the flaps of his shirt, seeking the heat of his skin. She feels like ice on his chest, his back, but he lets her do it. He'll give her all the warmth he has. He presses his palm to the tender back of her neck, giving her heat.

"He was already drained. I wasn't there, so I don't know, but I suspect you used him to start your jump when you tried to get to me."

Maeve turns her head, staring at her sister. "I didn't! I'd never just take anyone's energy like that!" Her voice breaks and she tries to clear her throat. "I don't even think I know how."

"He's your _céile_. You don't have to know how. It just happens." Keely shoots her sister an irritated look. "Don't you know anything?"

About this, no, she doesn't. She's admitted as much to him. Sinbad tightens his hold on her and kisses her temple lightly. "It's okay," he says, eager to avoid another rush of panic like the one that pulled him from his bath. He's sure that's not good for her or the baby. "You're safe now, and I'm fine. There's no reason to feel guilty."

"But I didn't do it," she says, her voice infinitely troubled. "Doubar said I bespelled you, but I didn't! At least, I didn't mean to…."

"Shh." His mouth finds hers and he kisses her gently. She's warming finally, very slowly, her body responding to the heat in his. "Forget everything Doubar said. He didn't know what he was talking about, and he's not part of our lives anymore."

Maeve looks beyond troubled when he raises his head, but she doesn't speak.

"You didn't bewitch him, strictly speaking, anyway," Keely says as Wren shoulders the door open. She has a laden tray in her hands, and Declan and Rory follow her with more. She helps them place their trays on Maeve's desk as Keely rises and selects two steaming mugs.

"Broth first," she says, handing one to Maeve, one to Sinbad. She places another pillow behind Maeve's head. "You can roll on your side to eat, but I'm serious about staying down. I don't want to have to tilt the foot of the bed up, but I will if I have to."

Maeve doesn't object this time, cupping her mug in shaking hands. Sinbad watches, but she's careful and doesn't spill as she brings it to her lips.

"If you can hold that down, you can try some solid food," Keely says, taking the wooden plate Wren hands her. "Maeve, listen to me. You didn't bewitch him, and you have no cause to feel guilty. I don't know who said what, and I don't really care except that everything you feel goes directly to that baby, so right now you need to stay calm. He's your _céile_. The bond varies—some are looser, some stronger—but it always strives to keep both sides evenly matched. I wasn't there when you left that ship, but I saw what you looked like when you got here. You would have died making that trip without help. A bond cannot survive without both sides. It did what it could, taking from him to try to keep you alive. To try to maintain balance. Do you see now?"

Sinbad does, and he watches as Maeve's troubled eyebrows ease. He strokes her cheek, grateful to feel warmth begin to return to her skin. He'll stay attached to her like this forever, if that's what it takes. "You didn't bespell anyone," he says, brushing his nose against her temple before kissing her lightly. "I asked you. I practically begged you. I made the choice."

"You didn't know," she says, her tired eyes lifting to him.

"Knowing wouldn't have changed anything." It changes nothing now. He'd never choose to go back to what he was without her, and knowing that he helped her survive this emergency makes him feel just the tiniest bit better. The brand on his chest and the corresponding curse has made him feel all but useless, but if his physical health and energy can be used to buoy Maeve's when she needs it, maybe he's not quite as useless as he thinks. "You're mine, sweetling. That won't change."

"I know." She touches his lip gently, a light brush of her fingertips, before returning to her broth.

More children enter the room on hesitant feet, Mia leading her baby sister by the hand, Duncan behind them. Sinbad hasn't seen Lily in ages. She's walking now, if unsteadily, and almost as tall as Duncan. She looks more like Nessa than ever, and he feels a twinge of guilt that these children are now missing their aunt. Not for the first time, he wonders where their father is. He wants to put things right between them, if it can be done, but he doesn't want to start another fight. Maeve needs to stay here. No one seems to be questioning her presence yet, and he doesn't want them to start.

Keely and Wren feed the solemn and uncharacteristically quiet children, passing them plates of food, Keely shaking her head when Lily tries to crawl into her lap. "I don't have space for you right now, ladybird," she says. "Your brother's too big. I told you before."

Lily whines and stomps her foot, which unbalances her and sends her to the floor. Wren hands her a slice of pear, which distracts her from the impending tantrum.

"_Oh_." Maeve's body jerks lightly against his.

"Pain?" Keely eyes her sharply.

"No." She sets a hand lightly over her belly. "Fin's awake."

"Yeah, she's been moving off and on while you've been out of it." Keely eyes her. "You know better than to name an unborn kid. I know you do."

"I won't apologize for it." Maeve's head falls back on her pillow. She hasn't been awake long, but he can see how tired she is. He sets her empty mug aside and draws the blankets to her shoulders again. "If things go wrong, the only one I'll hurt is myself."

"Can I touch?" Sinbad asks hesitantly. "Will it hurt her?"

"Gently. No pressure." Keely yawns. "How's your belly? Settled or in revolt?"

"I can't even tell anymore," Maeve says sleepily. "I'm too tired."

"Sleep, then. You shouldn't have woken at all." Keely scowls at the bracelet on Sinbad's arm. "Fucking thing. This is why I never mess with artifacts lacking provenance."

"We're really safe?" She presses close to Sinbad, but her eyes are on her sister. "You won't make us leave?"

"Why the hell would I do that? I said you weren't to move, didn't I? I'm not sending you back to that gods-be-damned ship like this."

Sinbad would very much like more of an explanation than that, but Maeve is too tired to wait for one. Her eyes slip closed once she receives Keely's irritated but sincere reassurance, and he can feel the moment she succumbs to sleep, her body going limp against his.

Keely waits five beats before fixing him with her hard green stare, which is actually longer than he thought she would. "Good. Now that she's out, I want some answers. What the fuck happened on your ship that she tried to drag herself here without her opal? Whatever it was, she's in no shape to rehash it, so you tell me while she sleeps."

Sinbad tenses, glancing at the small children listening with avid attention. He knew this question would be asked of him at some point, but he doesn't want to answer with so many little ears in the room.

"Out," Wren says firmly, lifting Lily and herding the others toward the door. "Rory, Mia, take the trays. Dex, you can help me with dishes since your brother's asleep."

"I want to know what happened," he whines, but he doesn't resist his mother as she presses between his shoulderblades. "I'm not dumb. Someone hurt Maeve. I'm old enough to help with payback."

"Who said anything about payback? Blood feuds only tear families apart. You're old enough to help me with dishes, and that's it. If you need to know more, you'll find out tomorrow." Wren closes the door behind them.

Sinbad eyes Keely. He does not want to answer this question, but she deserves to know the truth. She cleaned up Doubar's mess, after all. "Trade?" he offers, sitting up, one hand resting lightly on the curve of Maeve's belly. He can't feel any movement with so many layers of cloth between his palm and her skin, but it settles him anyway. "I need some answers. Why aren't you kicking us out? Antoine disowned her. Told her not to come back."

Keely freezes, a full plate of food in her hand. "He did what?"

"You didn't know?"

Her mouth twists. "I'm not all-knowing. It happens more often than you'd think. What did Antoine do?" She hands him the food.

"I'm not hungry." He's starving, actually, but too tense to eat.

"Eat anyway. Then lay back down with her. She's warming, and I think you're the cause. You or that damned bracelet. What did Antoine do?"

"Screamed at her." He takes the plate and rests it beside him but doesn't eat. He can't concentrate on food. Recalling how Maeve looked the last time she saw Antoine is not something he enjoys. "He disowned her, told her never to bother his family again." A thread of anger rises in him at the memory, but no more than that. He's too tired to be as properly furious as he should be. "Where is he? Can we keep her out of his way while she's here? I don't think she can handle another confrontation like that." Not now, not when she's already so fragile. And she shouldn't have to, anyway. She did nothing wrong. He lowers his head and kisses her hairline softly as she sleeps, so still under the heavy blankets. Once he recovers a little strength he'll gladly confront Antoine on her behalf. He was prevented from pounding his brother as much as he would have liked to and he'll happily pound hers instead.

Keely swears. "Keeping out of his way won't be a problem. That man." She settles back in her chair but she looks tense and anxious, and her hands have difficulty keeping still. "He's got a lot to answer for when I see his sorry face again."

"What do you mean?" As far as brothers go, his is by far the worst. But neither Dermott nor Antoine are winning any awards, either. She survived Dermott's desertion and Antoine's blame, but she wouldn't have survived Doubar's attack without help.

"I mean he took off after Nessa once he realized she wasn't with you," Keely snaps. "If you're not going to eat, let me see your hand."

He holds his injured hand out cautiously. "He did what?"

"You heard me. You broke two bones, you know that? And dislocated that finger. I'm pretty sure the bracelet knit the bones back together, which was a nice side effect because I have no energy left to do it right now. But you're not completely healed." She inspects the swollen bruising on the back of his hand, the torn knuckles, then releases him. "I understand he's upset about Nessa. I do. At least, I'm trying. We're all worried about her, but he has no idea where she went. He's searching blind. How he expects to find her like that, I don't know." She bites the inside of her cheek. "I'm sorry. I knew he was angry. I didn't know he'd take it out on you."

"Me I could handle. He can scream at me all he wants, pound on me all he wants. I won't hold it against him. But Rumina had just cursed us and Maeve couldn't handle him attacking her and taking her family away on top of everything else." He glances at the resting woman beside him. She's too deeply asleep for their speech to disturb her, for which he's grateful. He's not leaving her side again after what happened when he went to wash. "He _broke_ her. I didn't think that was possible. But he did."

"Rumina did what?" Keely's chin lifts as she watches him. "And what are you talking about? Antoine can't take her family away from her, any more than he could take you away from her. That's ridiculous. Start at the beginning. Your story makes no sense."

"Only if you agree to do the same. I have no idea what's going on, and I'm tired of it." He wants nothing more than to curl up with Maeve and sleep, just sleep, but if he can't do that he wants some answers.

"Yeah, fine." She rises and stretches, arms at the small of her back, her protruding belly looking even bigger as she arches. "Let's just all have a nice sleepover and stay up all night. Exactly what we need after today."

Sinbad ignores her prickly temper. This is how she is, and she's tired besides. She means nothing personal by it any more than Maeve does.

"She's been cinching tight," he says, unable to help noticing the difference in the size of their bellies. "Hiding her belly. Is that bad?"

"Yes, and I hid that thing. She can have it back after her baby's born, not before. She's safe here, she doesn't have to hide from anyone." She curses as she settles back in her chair. "Why am I surrounded by a host of you well-meaning idiots?"

This isn't the sort of question Sinbad is supposed to answer, so he refrains. She's in a terrible mood, but he really can't blame her. He toys with the food on his plate, but he has no stomach for it.

"Let's back up a bit," Keely says, exhaling a deep, weary breath. "I know Nessa pulled that stunt with the other girls the day after the _teas_. She's never been as mindful of the danger as her brother. She's not stupid, but she's not so willing to let it control her life, either. Clearly." She clears her throat.

That's one way of putting it. Sinbad watches Keely with half his attention, Maeve with the other. She's warming, but she still looks so pale, no color at all to her sleeping cheeks. He isn't angry at Nessa, though her attempt to irk Rumina was foolish to the extreme. He feels utterly unable to judge someone for poor decisions when he's made nothing but disastrous ones these past moons.

"They went at each other when she got back. She was furious that we'd kept Dermott's disappearance a secret. Ant was furious that she not only dared to go south but put the rest of those girls in danger, too. Nox is even more aggravating than I am—don't look at me like that—and would have happily taken the risk to piss off a prissy southern sorceress, but I don't think Ness explained the danger to everyone else as clearly as she could have. The _sìthichean_ know what going south means for them, but Rumina's a danger to everyone once she's properly nettled and Ness aimed to piss her off royally."

"She succeeded, if that makes you any happier," Sinbad says wearily. He's warmer after his bath, but his body misses the hot southern sun with a very physical ache. He remembers how Nessa's friends turned their faces to it, the baking heat melting them to happy puddles on the deck of his ship. He wants to curl up with Maeve in that heat, on the blistering white sand of some secluded southern beach, and melt to a happy puddle himself. The sound of rain on the window, the night-dark sky beyond the glass panes, doesn't help him feel any warmer.

"It does," Keely says, swiping a piece of bread from his untouched plate, "and it doesn't. I will happily let Ness piss that witch off all she likes. Hell, I'll help. But not at the price she risked."

Yeah, Sinbad agrees, and from her furious response to Nessa's presence aboard his ship he knows Maeve does, too. "I talked Ness into leaving. She didn't want to. She and Rumina would have been on each other if not for one of my men holding Ness back, and I know that wouldn't have ended well."

"No," Keely agrees, and her mouth twists viciously. "But I would have enjoyed the look on Rumina's face when someone dared hit her."

Sinbad knows. He remembers with his own twisted happiness the look on the witch's face when Maeve socked her in the mouth in Omar's library. "Well, as punishment, I guess, she laid a spell on my ship after Nessa left. Sped time—I don't even know how to explain it. She took three moons from us, everyone on board. It left Maeve looking like this." He touches her gently, running one fingertip lightly over the hollow of her sunken cheek. "Maeve said the baby grew too fast and it sucked everything from her. Her flesh. Her magic. Everything she had."

Keely frowns. "She sped _time_? For just your ship? Do you have any idea what sort of power we're talking about with a spell like that?" She chews roughly on her lower lip, the bread in her hand forgotten. "I'm not doubting you. You saw what you saw. But I didn't think she was capable of something like that."

"She had a...a glowing stone. A brimstone? Hellfire, she called it. A gift from Scratch."

"That's not good, Sinbad." Her sharp eyes dart to Maeve, then back to him. "For you _or_ for Rumina. Accepting a gift like that places constraints on a soul. Binds it. I know Rumina dealt with Scratch for your soul, but I thought she was too smart to fall for something so obvious as a gift from the devil."

"Maybe Turok never warned her about that? Or maybe she thinks she's devious enough to outsmart Scratch."

"I'm glad to know what happened, anyway," Keely says softly, staring at her sleeping sister. "We tried to reach you over and over. The opals wouldn't work. Ant's magic wouldn't work. It was like your entire ship disappeared off the face of the earth. For moons. Everyone was frantic." She strokes Maeve's forehead gently and bends to kiss her, touching her lips softly to her pale cheek. "I'm sorry about Ant. Truly. I wish you had come and asked me directly."

"You mean you were never mad at her?"

"We discovered you were gone at the same time Nessa left, so we logically assumed she must have gone to you. We hoped you'd found a spell, something powerful enough to protect you from Scratch and Rumina's meddling. It seemed rational that a spell so powerful would keep us out, too. We had to hope for the best. The only other possibilities were terrible ones. That Scratch or Rumina got the better of you. Or that your ship had gone down, most likely with Ness aboard. Ant couldn't abide that, the thought of two sisters lost at once."

Sinbad scowls. "He didn't give a fuck about Maeve's welfare when he appeared," he says tightly. He's trying very hard not to hate the man for what he did, and only succeeding because his own brother did worse. He can understand their worry, the uncertainty of those moons, hoping against hope that Maeve and Nessa were together and alive. He can understand Antoine's panic at discovering the truth—that Nessa was not with them and therefore had been on her own all that time. But he can't forgive what his careless words did to Maeve.

"It may not have seemed like it," Keely says, her face infinitely troubled. "I don't know, I wasn't there. But he was worried for them both. He started roaming, taking off for days at a time, searching for any hint of Nessa in case she wasn't with you. Then one day he came back yelling his fucking head off, screaming that Ness was lost. Nothing more. He left again the same day, wouldn't listen when I told him he was being unreasonable. There are better ways to find someone. A single man roaming the entire world isn't ever going to find someone who doesn't want to be found." Her mouth twists. "He hasn't been home since. I've been worried about Maeve, but I've got a house and library to run, a new apprentice, two small children and a third on the way, and two fewer adults to help hold everything together." She tosses her hair out of her eyes with a practiced jerk of her head. "I figured you couldn't need anything too badly if you didn't come ask for it."

Sinbad closes his eyes, his hand clasped firmly in Maeve's. So that was it. A desperate brother and a miscommunication of disastrous proportions. He can't laugh, despite the ludicrous nature of the situation. It's not funny. Not when Maeve and his daughter are so sick and may still die because of it.

"Sinbad, listen to me."

He opens his eyes.

"Maeve has been my sister since we were small." She looks him squarely in the eye. "I believed for a long time that we died that night, in the fire, and were reborn in the forest, in the fox den where we hid—rebirthed into this world as kin, the thing we both needed so badly. She never left my side. Never. Not until Rumina cursed Dermott and forced her to. Part of me died the day my sister walked away, you know. The part of me that believed in miracles. The part that believed something would stop her, that she'd never really do it." Her thumb moves on Maeve's sleeping forehead, fingers brushing back the soft red curls. "I don't know when Antoine will return. If he'll return. I hope he will. He knows he has a son on the way, and two little girls who need him as much as his sister ever did. But he doesn't get to choose my family. Only I do that, and Maeve came through the fire with me."

"You're not mad at her?"

"For what? Telling Nessa that Dermott disappeared? I wish she hadn't. There was a reason we didn't, and this is the result. Now she's missing and Antoine's gone, too. But he knew exactly where to hit Maeve, where she's most vulnerable. She didn't deserve that, and it wasn't true, besides." She drops her hand. "That man has a lot to answer for when he comes back."

If he comes back. The words, unsaid, hang heavy in the air.

Sinbad sits next to Maeve's still body, wishing for so much. For Maeve to pull through, and his daughter, too, defying the odds stacked against them yet again. For Dermott and Nessa to return, and Antoine to reconcile with Maeve. For his own brother never to have laid a hand on his _chéile_. But selfishly, out of all of it, he just wants his girls to be all right. Maeve is marvelously good at beating the odds and, for once, it seems that she has the tools she needs to fight her way back to health. She's safe here, protected in this place where Scratch can't touch her, Rumina can't see her. She has his undying love, and the support of most of her family, people she thought were lost to her. Maybe most of all, she has the magic of his rainbow bracelet to keep her going until she can manage once more on her own.

"Thank you," he says, words he means with his whole heart. "For saving her. Saving us."

Keely considers him. "I did a lot today," she says, acknowledging his gratitude, "but you've been doing more than you think. And for longer. You saved her life before I did."

"Because I'm her _céile_."

She nods. "Because you're her _céile_. You've been feeding her with your essence, your energy. After your tale, I doubt it was just today. You may have started doing it when Rumina cast that spell. We'll probably never know for sure, if neither you nor Maeve realized it was happening. But I suspect. That's how these things work." She lifts her thumb to her mouth to chew on a hangnail.

Sinbad tries to think back, but he honestly never considered this possibility before. He was tired after Rumina's spell, and both Doubar and Firouz remarked that he didn't look well, but he figured that was just a reaction to the dark magic, or to the tension surrounding Maeve. He was far more concerned with his sorceress, who looked—and still looks—like a wraith. Hell, he's so tired. He breathes slowly, inhaling cold air deep into his lungs. "Tell me the truth," he says, staring at Maeve. "What sort of chances do they have?"

"I can't answer a question like that. I don't think anyone could. All we can do is our best. You know Maeve never gives less than that." Keely stretches wearily. "I won't lie to you. I'm no good at coating things in honey. We stopped the immediate emergency, but recovery will be long and difficult and I can't guarantee survival. Not hers, not your daughter's. I'm sorry. She's been drained too thoroughly and for too long, and it's not as simple as putting back what was taken. And because we were forced to use the magic in your bracelet to save her, I can't even hazard a guess as to side effects. You're obviously not able to physically leave her. That one I didn't expect."

Buried to her chin in blankets Maeve looks so small, and that's something he's never, ever considered his sorceress before. She's too powerful for that. He shifts his hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps, the simultaneous pulse of his bracelet as it breathes with her. "I won't ever leave her again."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Her recovery, assuming all goes well, will take time, but there's no reason to think you'll be stuck like this forever. For now, you can't leave her, aye. But that may well change as she recovers. I hope it does, for your sake. She's going to be in a terrible mood once she starts feeling better. And nobody deserves to be shackled so closely to someone else for life. You'd kill each other within a year."

He doubts that. And even if it were true, he'll pay any price he has to, anything for these two lives.

"Come on now. I paid up. It's your turn. What the hell happened on your ship?"

Full night has closed in outside the window. It's late summer or early autumn—a season he's never really experienced before, though he's certainly heard of it—but the air in the house still feels cold to his skin. He aches for more familiar things, but most of all he aches at the truth he can't hide from anymore. Not when Keely's demanding it of him. "It was a good day. I actually think she was doing better. Better than she has since Antoine broke her. Then it all went to hell."

"Yeah, I figured that much. She's not stupid. She wouldn't have just tried to come here without training on a whim. What happened? Did Rumina show up again?"

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He shakes his head wordlessly.

"Scratch?"

He shakes his head again. Staring at Maeve's face, the swollen bruising on her cheek, all he can see is the viciousness of the blow that dropped her, then his brother's leg canting back, preparing to strike. That kick, delivered when she was down and offering no resistance, no threat, is something he didn't think his brother capable of even when fighting an enemy. Doubar was the one who taught him the rules of a street brawl when they were children, rules that did not alter as they grew. And the first is to never, never continue an assault after an opponent is beaten. But today Doubar did. And Sinbad may still lose everything because of it.

"Sinbad! Who did it? I know you never would. You don't have it in you. So why that look on your face?"

His mouth twists, somewhere between a caustic, mocking sneer at his own impotence and a grimace at Keely's continued demands. "I wasn't fast enough. He hurt her. Rongar warned me ages ago. But I didn't listen."

"Who hurt her?"

"My brother." This wound is as painful as Maeve's near-loss, but far more confusing. He's lost his brother forever and that loss leaves a gaping hole in his heart, but the edges are ragged and unclean, already festering. Doubar betrayed him. Betrayed everything Dim-Dim ever taught them. Sinbad will fight a woman if he has to, if she attacks first. He'd happily fight Rumina if given half a chance. But not like Doubar attacked Maeve. He heard the raised voices from atop the mast, knew they were arguing, so he knows Doubar felt her sharp tongue. But no matter what she said, it doesn't justify the escalation to a physical fight. Especially not with a woman so obviously unwell. Ordinarily Maeve could easily hold her own with Doubar, at least for a few rounds. And he didn't know she was with child, a line no one on the Nomad would ever, ever cross. At least, he used to assume they wouldn't. Now he just doesn't know anymore. Doubar attacked another member of the crew, a friend and ally. Kept attacking after she was down. These are also lines he assumed his brother would never cross. He would have put Doubar ashore moons ago if he thought there was the slightest danger.

But he didn't. He knew they were at odds, but he let it continue because Maeve said she could handle Doubar's anger. Because he trusted—they both trusted—his brother too far.

Now he has no brother.

Keely watches him steadily. "You realize even if she was able to get up, I wouldn't let her go back to that ship again. I'd take her bracelet away permanently first, and I wouldn't fucking care if she hated me for it."

"The danger's gone," he says, his voice flat and expressionless. The danger is far from gone. "I put him off the ship. Placed a good man in charge in my stead. I have no brother anymore." He has Rongar and Firouz. Tetsu the ronin. The former Adventurers, now scattered to the winds. But it's not the same.

"You have Niall," Keely says. "I wish I could say the same about Antoine and Dermott, but fuck if I know what's going on in their idiot heads. What possessed him? I know she's irritating as hell. I'll be the first to admit it. Dermott thought it was funny when she was small and never tried to rein her in—never tried to rein either of us in. Not that I think he would have been successful anyway. But that's no excuse for doing this to her. Or is it, in your world?"

These are questions Sinbad struggles to answer, even in his own heart. "He didn't know she was with child." He rubs his hands over his face, feeling the twinge of his own injury. "It's the truth, though not an excuse. I know that."

"That's one line uncrossed, anyway. But she's a skeleton, Sinbad. I wouldn't hit a grown man who looked as sick as she does, and I'm just a girl, not a giant."

His mouth twists. "I know. I _know_. It's my fault. I didn't listen. Maeve was afraid that the rift between them would never be healed even after Samhain, but I don't think even she foresaw this."

"She wouldn't. She's always been overly confident in her ability to take care of herself. And under-confident in other areas." Keely stretches wearily. "What are you going to do?"

It's a wonderful question. Sinbad has no idea. It's too soon, and he's too raw inside. "I ordered him off my ship. And broke his face." He tightens his fist, feeling the twinge of hurt muscles and tendons. "I'm going to do whatever Maeve needs. Whatever my daughter needs. The rest I haven't figured out yet."

"It's a start, I guess. What they need from you right now is your presence. I'll try to puzzle more out in the coming days, see if we can't make heads or tails of the side effects of using your bracelet. But you can't go back. Not right now."

"I know." He doesn't want to, anyway. He left things a mess on his ship and he's sorry for that, sorry that Rongar will have to pick up the pieces and sort everything out, but right now Maeve needs him. His daughter needs him. And they come first. They'll always come first. He's not Antoine. He doesn't know what it's like to have a sister, but he can't imagine abandoning a pregnant woman and two such small children who need him. He rubs his eyes and breathes softly. "What of her dream? She said Scratch separated her and the baby." Ordinarily he'd try to dismiss such a nightmare. But it's too eerily similar to the truth of what almost happened, and he can't quite let himself ignore it.

And she was so frightened. Maeve doesn't scare like that. Not over a dream.

Keely shrugs. "Who knows? I'm hesitant to discount it. Scratch is powerful, Sinbad, and he won't be happy when he learns where you are. What she carries. I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to stop her from getting here. Whether he sent a dream or something really happened, I couldn't tell you. You can ask her when she wakes, if she's willing to talk about it. She may not be, once she's thinking more clearly. She doesn't like feeling vulnerable."

"Nobody does." He's wrung dry himself. He wants to sleep for a week, but he also wants to hold his sorceress, to watch the steady rise and fall of her blankets as she breathes, that near-silent rhythm more reassuring than his own heartbeat. "She mentioned Cairpra, a sorceress in Basra. An ally."

"We can try contacting her, but it will take a few days before Niall or I are ready to do something like that. I'm curious, but not enough to risk myself or my boy." She touches her belly gently.

"Is that why you're so much bigger than Maeve is? Because you're carrying a boy?"

"Doubtful." Keely chuckles as she slowly pulls herself to her feet. "I've done this twice before, so I'm stretchier than she is. And I've been eating regularly." Her amused face sobers. "I don't want to leave you on a low note, but there aren't any highs today. That child is a mess of residual magics—I could feel it the moment I caught her, even before I had to step in with my own. I can't tell you what the effects will be. We won't know until she's born. But I know Maeve's been feeding her with magic."

"Is that bad?" He just can't handle any more bad news today. His soul can't take it. It doesn't surprise him that Maeve would feed her daughter in any way she can, though. She never wanted to be a mother, but she's determined to give that baby everything anyway, everything she has.

"Not in itself, though it can't replace the normal nourishment she needs, so Maeve better not have been trying to supplement a poor diet." She frowns. "There's just such a twisted tangle, the remnants of so much competing magic. She was conceived during the _teas_. The poisoning was mundane enough, no sorcery there, but I had to use magic to clear the poison from Maeve's body and hasten her healing. Then Rumina's time spell, which probably would have killed them both without you. Whether that bond counts as magic I don't know, but I do know you kept them alive today."

"I collapsed," he says faintly, remembering how little he cared to know why at the time. Maeve was gone. That was the only thing that mattered to him. "When she disappeared. I dropped like a felled tree." He's dazed as this new worry for his daughter erupts. He never dreamed that all that magic could have any sort of effect on her, though now he damns himself for being so stupid. He grew up with Dim-Dim. He should have known better.

"I don't doubt it. You look like you've been fighting a wasting disease." Keely rubs her eye. "At least that's easy to fix. We'll fill you both as full as you can hold. Assuming you actually eat." She casts a significant glance at his untouched plate. "I'm to bed now. Try to sleep. Helping yourself helps them, just as Maeve caring for herself helps your daughter. I doubt she'll wake again, but I said that before, so what do I know? Don't let her up. Carry her across the hall if she needs to go, but otherwise she needs to stay still. I'm not kidding about that. She won't like it, but she'll like it even less if she loses that baby."

Couched in those terms, Sinbad doesn't see how Maeve could argue. He certainly won't. "Thank you." He'll find some way to pay them back. He doesn't know how, but he will.

"She came through the fire with me," Keely repeats. "This is her home. Yours, too, now. That's how family works."

It sounds so simple when she says it. And he used to feel the same way. He welcomed Rongar aboard because he was Mustafa's friend, welcomed Maeve because she was Dim-Dim's apprentice. They're his family now. Maybe his closest kin, along with Firouz. But not Doubar. Not anymore. And he's not sure he even understands what family means without his brother.


	33. Chapter 33

_A/N: Happy US Thanksgiving, everyone! This one took a little more time than I expected because after fighting it for so long I finally had to cave. I tried, and I'm just not good enough to keep writing Rongar without resorting to the convention of using speech to signify his signing. I tried because I really don't like it, but as he takes a more prominent role I just couldn't sustain it._

**The Gift**

Pairing: Maeve/Sinbad  
Rating: M  
Setting: Just after Season 1  
All standard disclaimers apply

* * *

Three heartbeats pass after Sinbad disappears from the Nomad, vanishing with the woman Rongar only knows as the mother of the boys they watched for a week. He obviously trusts her without question, so Rongar does, too.

Six heartbeats.

The galley is silent save for Doubar's labored breaths, his large hand covering the bleeding ruin of his face. Rongar eyes him, eyes the rest of the crew—now his responsibility. He neither expected nor asked for this sudden promotion, but he aims to follow his captain's orders regardless. Having been the victim of a usurper himself, he knows the perils that can befall any group when the leader cannot trust his fellows. He trusts and respects his captain and will not fail him in that way. Sinbad gave his orders, and Rongar will honor them.

So, with a heavy heart but firm conviction, Rongar takes Doubar by the arm and guides him toward the door. Firouz's eyes widen, and Rongar knows this is the crucial moment of decision for the scientist and Talia. Will they obey Sinbad and their new temporary captain? Or will they side with Doubar, who has always been Sinbad's second in command and the loyalest of allies?

Firouz's breath leaves him in a rush, and his shoulders slump.

Her face unhappy but her movements decisive, Talia catches hold of Doubar's other arm.

"I can walk by myself," Doubar snaps. His voice sounds horribly congested through the bleeding ruin of his nose. He shakes loose and stomps topside.

"Hang on," Firouz protests. "Let me get my things and see that nose."

"It's broken. What's there to see? You think I've never been punched in the face before?" Doubar holds the cuff of his sleeve to his face, bleeding into the linen as he emerges into the waning sunlight of the dying day. Rongar and Talia are close at his heels. They share a glance that tells Rongar little about where she stands. He's good at reading people—he had to learn swiftly after losing his throne. But Talia is a wildcard, and always has been. Even Sinbad, who trusts perhaps too easily, does not hold complete faith in her. She's obeying Sinbad's wishes for now, siding with Rongar over Doubar. But she has her ship back. No crew or supplies yet, but crucially the ship. She can leave whenever she wants, and with the sudden shattering of this fellowship, Rongar suspects she may. Her ship is small enough that two could easily sail her, so she really only needs to find one other person in this bustling city willing to take their chances with a pirate.

"This time you deserved your beating," Talia says. "You deserved worse. Come on, big guy. You shouldn't disobey Sinbad's order. Not with how angry he was. Let's get you over to my ship."

Doubar mutters a string of bitter curses, but he goes. "No brother of mine would ever take some barbarian wench's side over mine. _Fight_ me over it, even! When I was defending him! She's bewitched him, that's the only explanation that makes any sense."

"You were not defending him," Firouz protests as they drop to the dock and cross to Talia's little ship. "You attacked a sick, defenseless woman, completely unprovoked from what I could see. You were letting your resentment get the better of your common sense, is what you were doing. Sit down." He produces a roll of clean linen bandage as Talia lowers a dusty bucket overboard to draw water. "How could you? I know you haven't been happy with her, but she's our comrade. Our sister, I suppose. Well, not Sinbad's sister." He turns slightly pink and tears off a length of linen, dipping it in the bucket. "This is going to sting, but I need to clean you up. And seawater's good for healing."

"I know that!" Doubar snaps. "Don't treat me like an idiot!"

*Then don't act like one,* Rongar signs, but Doubar pretends not to see him.

"And that heathen girl is not our sister—not mine, not yours. Definitely not Sinbad's."

"Let's hope not," Talia mutters. "People frown on brothers and sisters doing what they've been doing. Though I've heard rumors about the old Egyptian kings."

"Not rumors, if what the Greeks wrote about them is true," Firouz says, turning pinker. "But, then, some of the Greeks themselves—"

"Not the point, Mr. Genius." Talia folds her arms over her chest. "Girls don't tend to last long around you boys, it's true. None of you are really the settling down type. But as far as I know you've never actually attacked one before. Especially not a pregnant one." She glares sidelong at Doubar. "That was truly beyond despicable. The hothead and I may not like each other, but I'd never lay a hand on a pregnant girl. Even I have some scruples. And anyway, do you have any idea the penalty in the empire for violently causing a miscarriage? Unless you have another chest of priceless fabrics laying around, you won't be able to pay it. Which means your brother will legally own your ass—permanently. Except, of course, that if she does miscarry, he'll lose his soul. So maybe that means Scratch will own your ass? Hard to say. I don't know that there's a legal precedent."

Rongar lifts his hands to tell her she's getting off track, but lets them fall again as she stops speaking. She's not off track at all, actually. She's right. If Maeve miscarries due to Doubar's attack, he'll have sealed his brother's fate himself. Rongar went directly to the closest mosque when they docked in Attalia to learn the correct date from the imam, and he knows Sinbad's time is running out. Not a problem if Maeve and her child survive, but a very big problem if one or both do not.

Doubar blinks silently at the pirate, processing her words, his troubled mind struggling to separate the glaring truth from the unnecessary conjecture. Sinbad will never take his brother to court, so the legality of the matter means nothing. That's not how they settle disagreements. But the stark reality of the situation cannot be denied.

At least, that's what Rongar thinks until Doubar's ruined face hardens still further, his grey eyes turning to steel. "She's not with child. She told me as much. Sinbad told me. That's why we went searching for you."

*She is,* Rongar signs firmly. He's known it from the beginning. He knew when that historian in Basra told them the terms of the Tam Lin Protocol that Maeve would do it. She would rail and complain and raise a monumental fuss first—which was completely within her rights, considering what the Protocol required of her—but in the end, he knew she would do it. She loves their captain, thoroughly and implacably, no matter how much she tries to hide it. And she's not the kind to back down from a challenge, regardless of what's asked. Earning her trust is a difficult process, but once gained her loyalty does not falter. So he knew, no matter what she and Sinbad said to try to hide her choice. Assuming she could conceive a child, she was always going to be their captain's champion. There was never any other option.

"She isn't," Doubar growls. "Ouch! Stop that!"

"It's going to heal crooked if I leave it alone," Firouz says. "Do you really want that?"

"What do I care?"

"How could you be such an idiot?" Talia demands of the former first mate as Firouz prods gently at the still-bleeding, swollen mess of his nose. "Of course she is! I've been banging my head against the wall trying to get you to see it. Dropping hints all over the place, even though Sinbad told me not to. Come on! They weren't being subtle. I mean, they tried. It was kind of cute, actually. But they were terrible at it."

*Very, very terrible at it,* Rongar agrees. He knew the first night he heard soft, muffled voices from Sinbad's room in the sultan's palace in Basra. He knew when they began disappearing together, sometimes offering a laughably flimsy excuse, sometimes none at all.

He knew she had conceived when Sinbad started treating her like glass, his behavior toward her changing radically. Before she had always been an equal member of the crew, and that meant equal toil and equal danger. Sinbad adored her, though whether he admitted it to himself Rongar has his doubts. But he didn't let that interfere with her work, her place among his men. Until he knew she was carrying his child. Then everything changed. He didn't start mooning after her like a lovesick boy, didn't shower her with kisses or other touches—at least not where his crew could see. But he became massively more protective, which definitely caused problems with Maeve's free spirit. Other women might be flattered. She was not. How Doubar failed to catch these changes and the tension they caused between the pair, Rongar doesn't know. It's been his personal font of entertainment for the past moons.

But he kept his mouth shut, save for the one time he tried to warn Sinbad about Doubar's worsening animosity. He knew everything, and the price for saying any of it. Sinbad's soul hangs in the balance, and he and Maeve were already hiding things poorly. They didn't need him or anyone else making it worse. If their enemies don't know she's pregnant, then they have stupider enemies than Rongar figured. Sinbad and Maeve tried, they truly did, but they're just no good at lying. Maeve has secrets, but that's not the same thing.

"I'd like to put a couple of stitches in that lip, too," Firouz says, peering at Doubar's face. "But I can't see well enough without shaving some of your beard away."

"You touch my whiskers and I'm pitching you overboard."

Firouz sighs. "That's what I thought you'd say. And I don't have any mystical friends to come and save me as Maeve apparently does."

"Where do you think she went?" Talia asks, turning to Rongar. "Back home? Doubar said something about a library at one point."

Rongar doesn't even know anymore. He shrugs helplessly. He truly believed that in her condition she had no ability to transport herself anywhere, even someplace nearby like the docks or Talia's ship. He's seen her using flints to light fires lately, something she's never, _never_, done before, which tells him clearly how depleted her magic stores were. But then the boys' mother came, insisting Maeve was safe, and she has no reason to lie to them. Maeve called her her sister that disastrous morning when they discovered a flock of women on deck, led apparently by the lovely tall one with wings hidden under her clothes. He was fairly sure his heart stopped beating when he saw that one. She was so beautiful, and she absolutely knew it.

"I hope so," Firouz says without turning from his work. "Her sister has some magic and healing knowledge, though how much I couldn't tell you. She saved her earlier, when Maeve was poisoned. I did what I could, but I can't guarantee that she would have pulled through without the extra help. You know, most of the time I have no patience for people who say they heal with magic. Quacks, I've always considered them, every one. But from what I've seen, this one has a true talent. It's a shame she's chosen to use it the way she does instead of learning the science of real medicine."

Talia rolls her eyes. "Magic or science, I don't really care, as long as it works. I don't want Sinbad to lose his soul any more than the rest of you do. So they're in Celt territory, then? Too far for us to sail?"

*Not too far to sail, but too far to reach in time,* Rongar signs. It would take them moons to change direction and sail west, through the Pillars of Hercules and up the western coast to the islands Maeve hails from. And even if they made it—which, considering the seasonal storms they'd meet, is no guarantee—they have no idea where exactly this library is. No. Much as he would like to sail to the aid of his missing captain and crewmember, it's just too risky when he knows they won't make it before Samhain. Sinbad trusts him to keep his ship and crew in one piece until he returns. That needs to be his first priority.

"What will you do, then?" Talia asks.

An excellent question. *What Sinbad ordered,* he signs. As if he had any choice in the matter. Sinbad is his brother as much as he ever was Doubar's. Doubar let him down. Rongar will not.

How exactly to accomplish that, however, will take some thinking. He has no idea how long Sinbad will be gone, or if any further orders will come in the meantime. He leans against the mast of Talia's ship and considers his options. First and foremost, he has to ensure the welfare of the crew. That includes Doubar. Sinbad attacked him and ordered him off his ship, even called him a traitor, but he was murderously angry. He wanted to do more damage to his brother than just a ruined face, Rongar could see it in his eyes. He can't blame him. Not after what Doubar did. Doubar not only attacked a fellow member of the crew, but Sinbad's pregnant woman, a woman he adores and whose protection he takes very seriously. The child in her belly is the key to Sinbad's soul. So yes, Rongar gets it. But he stood between the fighting brothers because he wants no blood shed in fury. Once Sinbad calms down and makes a more rational decision, Rongar will abide by that judgment without question. But not one made in anger.

So, until he hears otherwise, he will follow Sinbad's orders to the letter...but also follow what he suspects is his captain's heart. He won't let Doubar back aboard the Nomad, but he can't just abandon him in Attalia and sail away, either. The man's actions were indefensible, but he acted out of desperation. Rongar is afraid of what else he might do, fueled by the same thoughtless emotion. He can't let Doubar harm anyone else, or harm himself, while Sinbad is away.

Doubar stands abruptly, shoving Firouz away, and lurches for the railing. He vomits liquid over the side, whiskey and beer and swallowed blood, swaying on his feet and groaning low.

"Gross." Talia's delicate face wrinkles with disgust. "And that's coming from someone who spent days locked in your hold eating nothing but apricots."

"Sinbad _hit_ me." Doubar turns slowly and collapses to the deck, back propped against the railing as he sits, his nose slowly leaking blood despite Firouz's attention. He sways, leaning heavily like a sack of grain or a child's discarded rag doll. "My brother. My brother." His gray eyes blink hazily.

"Because you attacked his wife and child," Firouz says, lugging the bucket over and kneeling by his side again. "Well, point of fact, they're likely not married. Celts don't—"

"Do not say it!" Doubar groans, rubbing his hands over his sweating face. "I'm sick to death of hearing it! I don't give a rat's ass what those misbegotten heathens do or don't do! She's not with child, she told me so herself!"

*They've been lying to keep her safe from Rumina's spying,* Rongar signs. Honestly, Doubar's insistence on this point is getting old. He's well-known for his patience, but it only goes so far. He's loyal to Doubar because of their long brotherhood, but his empathy rests fully with Maeve. She's taken the force of the first mate's anger from the beginning, and it was wholly undeserved. She's sacrificing the rest of her life to save Sinbad, choosing to bear him a child that will then have to be raised and cared for. Many women want this. She did not. Rongar knows that perfectly well; his own sister is the same, or at least she was the last time he saw her. He recognized her spirit in Maeve. But his northern comrade does not back down when those she loves are in need. She never will.

Doubar grunts as Firouz wraps layers of bandage around his head. "I feel like an Egyptian mummy. You need to invent something sticky, Firouz, that can attach bandages to the skin easily."

"I have honey," the physician says, "which has been used time out of mind to dress wounds. It helps keep rot from setting in. But it will melt in the heat, and attract insects besides. Hold still." He knots the ends behind Doubar's head. "Did they actively lie? This mess has been going on so long that I can't remember anymore. They just...kept things to themselves, which is wholly their right if you ask me. I admit I didn't know until after Rumina cast that spell. I saw Maeve without some of her layers when I was ministering to her. She has a belly, Doubar, though she hides it well. I know little of midwifery, but I can't imagine that's healthy."

"She lied to my face," Doubar growls. "She looked right at me and swore she would never give Sinbad a son. If she really is with child, that's about as bald a lie as you can tell. And you wonder that I don't trust her?"

"She wasn't lying, you idiot, she was trying to tell you something!" Talia throws up her hands. Rongar lets her fume, because if she didn't, he'd have to. "Isn't it obvious, even to you? I don't know too much about magic, but I'd bet every last dinar in my pouch that she knows she's not giving Sinbad a son. She was trying to tell you she's giving him a daughter." She swears loudly.

"A daughter? A girl?" Doubar snorts. "If she's carrying a girl, it's not Sinbad's. Some fully-barbarian bastard, most likely, considering how often she's been flitting away north lately. My brother's a man's man. He would never father a _girl_."

Talia darts forward, and Rongar can see instantly by the flavor of her movement that she aims to do damage. He catches her wrist lightly and hauls her back, shaking his head. Her hazel eyes flare at him, but he holds firm. He understands, but Doubar's been pounded enough today and he can't guarantee Sinbad would want his brother murdered by an angry piratess.

"Look, I get that you're captain now. Fine," Talia says, shaking off his grip but thankfully ceasing her thwarted attack. "But I've had just about enough of the big guy's chauvinist ranting. Babies come from fucking, which is a fantastic way to enter the world if you ask me, but nobody gets to pick the one they want like fruit from a tree! You get what you get, boy or girl, healthy or sickly, big or small, and not even sorcerers or emperors get any different. Even the manliest men make daughters and there's no shame in it, no matter what this idiot thinks!"

"_What I think_," Doubar says, pushing Firouz away again, "is that other men can have all the daughters they please. Sultans can. Generals can. But Odysseus sired no girls and neither did my brother. He's too strong for that."

Talia casts Rongar a beseeching look, but he shakes his head firmly. *There's been too much blood shed already.*

"Why the fuck would I care about that when I'm not the one who shed it? And anyway, this is my ship, not yours. I think that means I could slit his throat if I wanted to. I don't think I do. Yet. But if he keeps talking I might change my mind."

Rongar might just, too. Doubar doesn't know it, but he has a sister he loves and respects highly. And Maeve is his sister, too, no matter how much the former first mate may deny it. She doesn't deserve any of the treatment Doubar's been giving her, even before this violent attack. She can be annoying as hell, but so can Doubar. So can they all at times. That doesn't excuse the way Doubar hurt her.

But, no matter how angry Sinbad is now, Rongar cannot be sure that he actually wants his brother dead. Or permanently crippled. So he squeezes Talia's shoulder and lifts one side of his mouth in a regretful half-smile.

"You're lucky I'm a sucker for those manners of yours." Talia makes a face.

Rongar inclines his head to her as if she were a fine lady.

She snorts. "Have it your way. But I'm not forgetting this. I'm tallying up the beatdowns. He'll get them all later."

Rongar doesn't doubt it. Talia does not tend to hold grudges, but Doubar is treading thin ice and refusing to retreat though his foundation is swiftly shrinking. He's being willfully obtuse at this point, refusing to admit what's in front of his face. He was wrong. Maeve is carrying Sinbad's child, the child he needs to save his soul, and Doubar injured her badly. Now everyone's fate hangs in the balance, and it's all Doubar's fault.

But Rongar has to hold these people together, at least until Sinbad returns. Until they know, one way or another, what their fates will be. He can't let Talia and Doubar fight. Talia's right, but Doubar would probably win, and anyway Rongar is sick of the infighting. He needs it to stop. They were an unbeatable force when they were united, this crew, but the threat to Sinbad's soul has shattered them. He's watched it happen, unable to hold them together as Maeve's tension and Doubar's resentment pulled them further and further apart. He thought Talia's entrance might be the final straw, but she's proven not to be as divisive as he thought. Instead, Doubar broke them himself.

Rongar has no idea what will happen when Sinbad returns. It all depends on Maeve, whether she and her child live or die. If they pull through without permanent harm, Sinbad may forgive Doubar. But if they don't, he suspects the whole crew will remain broken permanently. They'll lose their captain, and Maeve as well. Doubar will inherit the Nomad, but without his brother he'll be a wreck of a man, useless as a leader, possibly useless at anything else. He'll lose his taste for the sea, of that Rongar is certain. Without Sinbad, Firouz will have no need to sail, and will likely return to Basra or another city of learning. Rongar himself will get by; he always has before. But he won't be the same. He lost one family when he left his homeland, and he can't bear the thought of losing another.

So, to that end, he begins to pull together the threads of a plan. There's so much he cannot do, so much that depends on Sinbad, on Maeve, on the baby in her belly. But Rongar refuses to lose this family if he can help it, so he'll do what he can.

And to begin, that means reuniting everyone. The whole family. Sailing for Eire is not feasible but searching for Dermott is, especially if he can convince a certain soothsayer to help him. It's a risk he would be unwilling to take for nearly any other cause, but he will gladly chance the wrath of one sister to aid the other.

* * *

Maeve sleeps.

Sinbad is delighted to let her.

Every moment that she sleeps, every beat of her heart that passes without crisis, is another moment that she and his daughter live. One more minute, one more step on the road to healing. Keely can't guarantee anything, which means he's living second by second, existing on the knife's edge of uncertainty, never knowing whether he's going to plummet. He's not stupid. Maeve's body is in no shape to conceive again should she lose this child, which means if his daughter dies, his soul belongs to Scratch.

And for the first time, he's truly afraid of what that means. Not for himself, but for the wounded heart sleeping deeply beside him. She'll be left alone, without her child and without him. This didn't worry him before, but now it does as the reality of what the Protocol has done to her can no longer be denied. She's not the same person she was moons ago, not the same woman who stood in Omar's library, bloody and defiant after Rumina's attack, and swore she would see the Protocol through in contempt of her greatest enemy. She's strong beyond measure, but the constant strain on both her body and her soul have battered her down and he's terrified of what will happen if she makes it through this darkness but their baby doesn't.

Before, when he contemplated losing his soul, he worried most for Doubar. He assumed Firouz and Rongar were adaptable and Maeve unstoppable. He was convinced she would continue her quest to find Dim-Dim even without him. But now? Without Dermott, would she still have the same drive? And after losing a child not to chance but to a violent attack by a man she considered a brother, would she still have the same heart?

Cairpra warned him from the first. Told him to be careful with Maeve—so very, very careful. As he looks at her broken body sleeping in the big bed, he knows he has not. He's made so many mistakes that led to this moment, this balancing act where the fate of his soul and so many other lives rests on the strength of one tiny, unborn little girl. He should have banished Maeve from the Nomad the moment they knew she was with child, should have made her remain here at Breakwater where he knew she was safe, no matter the pain of separation. Even if she found such an act unforgivable and never spoke to him again, it would be worth it. She'd be safe, and his daughter healthy.

Instead he let her stay, unable to force himself to say goodbye, even under threat of losing everything. He willingly lied to Doubar and the rest of his crew, though he could see the toll it took on his brother, how worry twisted and warped his protective personality, turning him bitter and sullen, things Doubar has never before been. He let the first mate take out his anger on Maeve, let the animosity fester, and this is the result: a broken woman barely hanging on and an innocent child who might not survive to be born.

His fault. All of it. Scratch and Rumina conspired to steal his soul, but he made the choices that ultimately led to this. He hates these enemies with a dark, bitter loathing, but he cannot absolve himself. Nor does he absolve Doubar of what he did. His brother didn't know Maeve was with child when he struck her, but still he put his hands on a woman too sick and weak to fight back. He broke the rules of engagement, rules he himself taught Sinbad when he was young, lashing out at someone he should have striven to protect instead. And that remains unforgivable.

Sinbad sleeps that first night straight through, his body too exhausted to do otherwise. Maeve is his _chéile_; he trusts that bond to tell him if she wakes.

She does not. Not that first night and not the next day, or the next. Her people come at regular intervals with mugs of hot broth and herbs and help Sinbad turn her gently to her side; she opens groggy brown eyes but doesn't ever truly wake, silent and unseeing, speaking no words, making no resistance. She swallows what they give her reflexively, then returns to deeper sleep. At night Wren brings a lidded crockery dish full of hot embers from the kitchen fire, tucking it under the blankets near Maeve's feet to help keep her warm.

And the life of the library continues around them. Sinbad can hear pieces of it from their room—children calling, adults answering in softer tones. Lily's stormy tantrums as she cries for a father who never comes. Raucous laughter and screams from the meadow and forest as the children play in golden late summer sunshine, sometimes with friends from the local village, rowed across the narrow channel between the big island and Breakwater. Wren sings softly to Con as he cuts his first tooth, lullabies that hurt Sinbad's heart almost as much as Lily's tears. He remembers nothing of his mother, save a vague image of a pale-haired woman that may just be his imagination. He certainly remembers no lullabies. He tries desperately to catch the words Wren sings in her native tongue, Maeve's native tongue, wishing to commit them to memory. To be able to sing to his daughter, to soothe her tears as easily as Con's parents soothe his. He wishes he could do so now.

Because he can't imagine she feels very loved. She's been squeezed and starved, her growth rushed with dark magic and hidden with unyielding leather. She was poisoned early on, and her nourishment has been haphazard at best. During the quiet hours while Maeve sleeps, his own body weakened but not to the point of hers, he holds his hands lightly to the curve of her belly. He can't sing to her; he doesn't know how. But he can talk, and he does.

"I'm sorry," he says. He doubts his daughter can hear, but he's connected to her mother through the power in his rainbow bracelet. Maybe she knows what he's saying anyway. Maybe she knows what's in his heart, even when words fail him. He presses his palm to the tight, stretched skin of Maeve's belly, up under the soft lambskin robe holding in her perilously low supply of body heat, and each time he feels his daughter move under his hand is like a gift he doesn't deserve. His heart stops and then starts anew, each and every time, like the world is born again under his hand.

"I promised to take care of you, you and your mother both, but I didn't." She needs to know this, more than anything else—none of this is Maeve's fault. Or hers. Only his. He runs his thumb gently along Maeve's skin. Wren applied a sweet-smelling salve to her belly to ease the stretch; it makes her butter-soft and silky. But that bruise is still there, dark and dangerous, reminding him that they're not out of danger. Their salvation depends on the strength of the little soul growing inside. But, starved and smothered as she was, what chance does she have to fight the damage Doubar did? Can she do it? Can she recover?

Will Maeve, if she loses this child and Sinbad his soul?

Fear hangs heavy around him, and he struggles against it as a boat struggles to break through surf to calmer water. He swears he can feel the bond between them, all three battered souls, himself and the woman in his arms, the child within her. They need his warmth, his strength, and he happily gives them all of it, everything he has. He'll spend the rest of his life, however long that is, giving them the world.

Beyond the noise of the people in the house, if he concentrates, Sinbad can hear the sea. Breakwater is not a large island and the house sits near a low, gentle cliff where soil turns to sand and forest to dune grass, then a small but lovely beach. The sound of the sea settles him almost as much as Maeve's soft breaths. The steady surf is its own lullaby. Will it lull his daughter as it lulls him? Calm her when she cries? He'll bundle her up tight and take her walking on the shore in any weather, if it soothes her. Walk with her on the deck of his ship, let the waves rock her gently. She'll be adored and pampered as much as any little princess, he swears. But she has to pull through first.

He closes his eyes against the leaden weight of guilt pressing so deeply into him. "We want you, angel," he says, because that's what she is. His guardian angel, sent to save his soul. Were she not already named, that's what he'd name her. But he'll defer to Maeve in this, as he'll defer to her in every choice regarding their daughter. She's risking everything. She gets to choose. "We need you. You have no idea how badly we need you." She can't feel very wanted, considering everything that's been done to her. He needs to change that. "Your mother and I are doing all we can. Just hang on. As long as you can. You need to stay where you are, and rest, and grow. Please." He wants her desperately, but not too soon. She needs to stay safe inside her mother for now. She needs to finish growing. This world can be an unkind place, and she needs to be as strong as possible before she meets it. The memory of Maeve's dream—if it was a dream—haunts him. He needs a pregnant woman to challenge Scratch for his soul, not a woman who's recently given birth. But he's far more concerned for his daughter's welfare. Babies born early do not live; everyone knows this, and his daughter isn't due until after Samhain. He's still not entirely sure exactly what happened when Maeve left his ship, or why she was bleeding, but he does comprehend that she very nearly miscarried and she has to stay still to minimize the chances that it will happen again.

A miscarriage or stillbirth was always a possibility, one he thought he'd braced himself for. But now he realizes how little he actually prepared for this prospect. Ever since learning Maeve carries a girl, his daughter has been solidly real in his mind—not a nebulous concept or an amorphous being, but someone grounded very much in reality. Someone he can picture...and love. This was not something he expected, the depth of his attachment, how clearly he can see her in his mind's eye. She'll be beautiful no matter who she takes after, but in his mind he sees a tiny Maeve, milky-skinned and fire-haired, the happy little girl circumstance never permitted his sorceress to be.

If she survives.

While he can picture her, he has trouble imagining her life. Assuming she lives, and Maeve succeeds in freeing his soul from Scratch, they'll have some very serious choices to make. Decisions he has neither the right nor the wish to make alone. If Maeve wants to stay here, to raise her daughter among her people, he won't protest. He goes where she goes now, no matter what that means. He's useless as a scholar but he could learn to be a fisherman like the men in the neighboring village, he supposes, coming home each night to a stationary house and family. It's never been something he desired, but for the woman willing to risk her world and her life to save him, he'll do anything. Even settle down.

And Doubar? This unfinished business looms large in his mind, troubling his rest as his body slowly begins its recovery. He wishes he could sleep as deeply and as thoroughly as Maeve does, but he can't. He's not so drained, and as he gains ground worries plague his mind, denying him sleep. What is he going to do about Doubar? He ordered him off his ship, but left that mess for Rongar to enforce—yet another reason he feels guilty. And it's not over. He feels it in his bones.

He holds Maeve a little tighter as he worries, wrapping his body around hers, pressing himself to the soft lambskin she wears. She sleeps deepest like this, as he shares his body heat and the reassurance of his presence. Her soft breaths and the slow pulse of the light in his bracelet tell him what his heart already knows—she's most peaceful when in contact, even her bare feet entwined with his. She's his greatest responsibility now, as well as his deepest comfort, and he's glad remaining in this place for the time being is not up for discussion. But the future looms uneasily before him. Doubar's vicious attack was on Maeve, not him, though it feels like a betrayal of them all. She needs to have a say in what comes next. She'll demand it, he knows, if he doesn't offer, so it's best he makes no firm decisions until she's able to make them with him. Doubar is no longer his brother, regardless, but any other decisions they make may well rest on whether their daughter lives or dies. If Doubar really has killed her….

No. No, that's a road he's unwilling to tread unless he has to. "Please," he whispers, his voice stolen by a grief too powerful to ignore, "we'll do anything. _I'll_ do anything. Your mother's the toughest woman in the world. If you're anything like her...fight. Stay with us. She needs you."

It's out of his hands, and he knows it. But Maeve has had her world shattered too many times, and he can't stand the thought of it happening again. She survived the loss of her mother, her school, her childhood. Survived the cursing of her brother, the loss of him and Antoine both, and the belief that the rest of her northern family was lost. But he doesn't know that she can survive the loss of her _céile_ and her daughter, too.

* * *

Near noon the third day he's jolted from a light doze by a jangling internal alarm, as if a swarm of bees suddenly took up residence in his skull. His body jerks, and his eyes open on a sight that makes him want to both cry like a child and bellow for Keely.

Maeve's awake.

Dark, groggy eyes blink slowly, and for the first time in days they focus on him. They know him. That sweet gaze is the most beautiful thing in the world to him. No wonder he's ever seen, god- or man-made, comes close. He loves the veins of gold in her eyes, the length of her thick lashes, how her regard fixes on him to the exclusion of everything else. She sees him. She knows him. The instant panic she woke with, a feeling he knows all too well, settles the moment her gaze finds him. He watches as the tension bleeds swiftly from her, as swiftly as it came. He's with her, and she knows that means she has nothing to fear.

She stretches and groans softly, a fumbling hand reaching for her forehead. Her face contorts in a grimace of pain.

"Shh." He cups his hand lightly over her brow, shading her eyes from the noontide sunshine streaming through the window. "Just relax, sweetling. You've weathered a storm." How lucid she is, how much she remembers, he has no idea. He shields her from the light and waits, resisting the urge to begin speaking and never stop—to apologize over and over again, to tell her how scared he was, how much he needs her.

She blinks, rubs her dark eyes, and peers at him before glancing quickly at the room, the blankets covering their bodies. "What…" Her throat convulses in a dry, hollow cough when she tries to speak.

"It's okay. Everything is fine now." He hovers, unsure whether it's safe to leave her to find Keely or bring her water. Her poor throat sounds painful, but he doesn't want a repeat of what happened when Wren talked him into washing.

She shakes her head slowly, stifling her cough in his shoulder. "Hurts."

"I know." He'd be shocked if she wasn't in pain. "Just breathe for a minute. Do you want Keely?"

"Keel—" Another fit of coughs takes her. "But Ant said—"

"I know. I was there." He resettles the pillow under her head and cradles her cheek lightly in his palm, careful of the puffy bruise still glaring balefully at him. "But he was wrong, _mo chailín_. Your sister saved your life. Do you know where you are?"

Her eyes break from his and dart swiftly around the room again. "Yeah," she says, a dry croak. "But—"

"I know. There's a lot to explain. I don't even know it all yet. But the most important thing is that you're safe. Both of you." He rests his hand lightly on her belly.

"My girl." Her arms shift to cradle the swell of her growing child. "She's really here? She's safe? Scratch tried to take her away." She shudders, squinting against the light as she holds her belly.

"Don't panic, please," he begs softly. "And don't squeeze her too hard, Keely says she's delicate. There's no need to fear. She's with you, right where she belongs." He kisses her forehead gently. "Do you remember waking before? What Keely told you?"

Maeve shakes her head slowly, a troubled frown marring her lovely brow, the curve of her tired mouth. "I remember...I don't know. It's a jumble. My Fin. Keely. Cairpra. And Scratch." She shudders, and tucks herself against his chest. He covers her body with his, letting her huddle against him, and refuses to judge her for her fear. Under normal circumstances she would never seek him out like this, never soothe her fear with his skin, his arms. She faces the things that scare her, sometimes with bravado bordering on recklessness. But she's exhausted and confused, worn down and at the end of her energy. She needs a safe harbor to regain herself, and he'll gladly be that for her if she wants him.

He cradles her gently, wrapping himself around her, letting her seek solace in the curve of his throat, the firm line of his shoulder. She tucks herself into her favorite spot, breathing him in deeply, hiding from the painful sunlight, but also her fear. It's fine. She's perfectly entitled. He strokes her tangled hair gently and breathes with her. The curve of her pregnant belly presses into him, the warmth of her breath sweet against his chest.

"Everything's all right now," he promises, even though it isn't. But the crisis has calmed, and her panic will do no one any good, least of all herself. Doubar's attack is over. Whatever happened to her between here and the Nomad is over. Keely stopped the threatened miscarriage and poured energy into her, using Sinbad's rainbow bracelet. "You've been asleep but stable for several days. You're home where Scratch and Rumina can't touch you. There's no reason to panic. Just breathe with me."

She does. They're breathing in tandem, in sync with the gentle pulsing of his bracelet's light. He feels her physical tension ease as she allows herself to trust him, though her confusion remains. It's going to take some long conversations before everyone has everything sorted out, including him. But for now, for this moment, he lets himself be soothed as well. She's awake. Lucid, if confused. And she doesn't seem to blame him for his failure to protect her, as he so thoroughly blames himself. She presses her frail body to his, seeking the comfort of touch, of connection. Her safe harbor, as she is his. He lets himself bask in the feeling.

"I don't like not remembering things," she says finally, speaking into his skin.

"I know, _mo chailín_." He feels the same. It goes back to their shared need for control over their lives, their surroundings. He knows how much he hates gaps in his own memory, knows how thoroughly she has to hate this one. "We'll figure it out, I promise. There's no shame in it. You were near death, and Keely said you shouldn't have woken that night at all. You surprised her."

This earns him the faintest, sweetest trickle of a laugh. Oh, he likes that. Wants to hear it again, feel the soft vibration against his skin. "I pissed her off, you mean."

"Very much. But she blamed it on my bracelet, so you're off the hook." His hand plays lightly with the hopeless tangles of her hair. He trusts that the women here will be able to somehow put her mane to rights again. He just wishes he could put her in a hot bath. He can't, and he knows this, but he's sure she'd feel better if she could soak some of that tension and pain away. "Let me get Keely for you. She'll want to know that you're awake, and she'll bring you some hot broth. Maybe real food, too."

But Maeve presses her sharp self into his chest with a little shake of her head, holding him close. "Don't. Don't go."

And how is he supposed to argue with that? "Never. You can't get rid of me now." She doesn't know it yet, but she's stuck with him. He can't leave her, even if he wanted to. Not until she recovers fully or Keely finds a way to undo the side effects of the spell that saved her life.

"I never wanted to." She shifts against him and wounded brown eyes stare up at him. "Never." She coughs. "But Scratch…."

"Hey." He's instantly contrite. This subject is clearly too tender for even gentle teasing. "I know. I know, firebrand. I'm sorry." So sorry. His lips touch the delicate skin of her cheek, hover a breath away from her mouth. "You're safe now. No one can touch you here. Not Rumina. Not Scratch. Not Doubar." His voice hitches; he pushes past it. This wound may never heal properly, but she doesn't need to know that. It's not important, anyway—not as important as the flash of her throat as she breathes, the soft wash of warm air over his lip. Her eyes are open. She's speaking. For the first time in days, he feels like maybe he's not drowning. No wound, however deep, is as important as that.

Her head lifts from the pillow, the barest movement necessary to touch her mouth to his. He kisses her gently, the soft glide of her mouth against his as sweet as dawn breaking over the sea. Never again will he take this touch for granted. Not after almost losing it forever.

His fingers trace the contours of her face, traveling lightly over her beloved features as he breathes with her, kisses her, warm and sweet, slow and unhurried. Their furtive touches aboard ship have been stolen and swift, doing nothing to ease his desire, how he aches for her. Sex is far from his mind—a terrible idea, and one he's sure Keely would forbid anyway—but he revels in the silken beauty of this kiss, the safety that makes it possible. Scratch and Rumina can't see them and maybe don't even know where they are. The feeling of being fully, completely alone with his sorceress, knowing no one is spying on him, lifts a weight from his shoulders he hadn't realized he was carrying. It's bliss, the sense of solitude, of privacy, knowing for sure that no one will try to use these tender moments as a weapon. He can focus purely on his girl, not stifling all noise, hiding away from prying eyes who want to do her harm.

When Maeve finally sinks back against her feather pillow, gently breaking the kiss, she looks exhausted. She's been awake mere minutes, but he can see clearly the fatigue that still claims her. Her sweet eyes blink slowly and threaten to close again. He knows she badly needs her sleep, but she also needs something more substantial in her belly than the broth and herbal brews they've been pouring down her throat at intervals.

"Can you keep your eyes open for me?" he asks, nudging her nose with his. He loves the way her well-kissed mouth looks, warm pink and lush, how his own lips tingle with the taste of her. "Your sister really should know you woke. She's been very worried about you. I know because she's been snarling at me."

The faint hint of a smile touches the corners of her mouth, but it doesn't reach her eyes. A worried line appears between her brows. "Please. I don't understand. Ant said—"

"I know what he said. I was there. I'm sorry I didn't punch him in the mouth; I was afraid you'd get mad at me." He strokes her cheek lightly with his thumb, careful not to touch the dark bruise that has to hurt like hell. She never complains about banged-up arms and legs, but he knows from experience that the face is different, and also that Doubar put an appalling amount of force into that blow. He meant to fell her with it, and he succeeded. He forces those bitter thoughts away and focuses on her worried frown instead. "It's Keely's story to tell, not mine, but Antoine's not here and she loves you. Please try not to worry about that. She didn't say it directly, but I'm pretty sure worrying is bad for you. And for Fin."

"Finleigh." She coughs lightly, and a thin line of confusion appears between her delicate brows. "How did you…?"

"Mia's been talking nonstop about her. Wren says at first they thought she was a new imaginary friend. Then you appeared and it all made a little more sense." One side of his mouth quirks, attempting to smile. "Is our girl going to be like that? With the magic? It kind of gives me chills, to be honest."

"I hope so." Her face shifts, landing valiantly close to a watery smile. "I hope she's whatever she's supposed to be."

"Me, too." He's pretty sure that goes without saying. His little girl can be whatever she wants—fierce or bookish, intelligent or reckless, delicately feminine or the roughest tomboy. Hell, she can be all of it if she chooses. Her mother certainly is.

"I'm sorry, Sinbad," Maeve says swiftly, and her eyes drop, hiding from him.

"Good gods, for what?" She's done nothing but her best, nothing but what he's asked of her. She's risked her life over and over again since agreeing to the Protocol, and has never once faltered. What does she possibly have to be sorry for?

"She's not the boy you wanted. The boy Doubar expects." Maeve swallows hard. "I'm sorry for that. But I wouldn't trade her for a dozen sons."

"Whoever said I wanted you to?" He presses his forehead to hers, letting her hide from his eyes, but not his touch. Not this bond they share. "Doubar's the one constantly ranting about a boy, not me, and he's not part of our lives anymore. I always knew a girl was equally likely, and I don't care either way. I just want her to be healthy. Strong." To survive what his brother did to her, though he does not voice this thought out loud.

"Look, I'm not stupid," she says, and he can hear the quiver of emotion in her voice that tells him to beware. Tears are drawing near the surface, and that's something she does not need right now. "I've lived in your world long enough to understand these things. No one wants daughters."

"That's not true," he insists. "Yes, sons are preferred by most men, but I imagine the same is true the world around, not just where I come from. And that doesn't mean all daughters are unwanted. I had two sisters who died very young when an outbreak of illness hit Baghdad. My father was devastated, according to Dim-Dim. He was never the same man again. And look at your brothers. No matter how misguided he's been in other areas, Antoine loves his daughters. Niall wants one badly. And I promise you, no little girl will ever be cherished like ours."

The threatened tears come, but whether they're sad or just overwhelmed, Sinbad can't say. He lets her cry. It's probably not great for her body, but maybe it's good for her soul.

"She's going to save you," she says, speaking into the column of his throat. "She and I are going to break this curse and save your soul."

"I know." He's so afraid for his daughter, for her mother, but when Maeve speaks with this sort of conviction he can't doubt her. "She's getting an early start on the family business. With a hero for a mother and a hero for a father, how could she be anything else?"

Maeve's laugh this time is stronger, though watery, bubbling through the last of her tears. "I held her, Sinbad. I did. I can't explain it, but it felt too real to be a dream. She looked in my eyes, and she was a real person, with a real soul." She presses close to him and yawns, her energy reserves utterly empty.

"I believe you." He's incapable of doing otherwise, no matter how farfetched it sounds. Maybe it was a dream. Maybe it wasn't. He's not sure it matters. What does matter is making sure they're both healthy, and that's Keely's job. "Let me get your sister for you, please? So she can check on Fin before you fall asleep again."

This time she allows him to rise, her arms releasing him as reluctantly as he pulls from her. She wouldn't let him go for the promise of food, but she does for the lure of information regarding the baby in her belly. She watches him with sleepy eyes as he pulls on his shirt and vest and winds his _hijam_ around his waist. "I think I remember Keely telling me I can't get up. Was that a dream?"

"No. That was real." He needs her to be clear on that point, if nothing else. "I don't know exactly what happened, and I don't want to tell you something wrong, so Keely should explain it." He's going to let her sister handle this one, and he only feels the tiniest twinge of guilt for passing on responsibility. He bends to kiss her forehead. "You're safe at home, we're all still alive and together as we should be. So please don't worry."

She lifts her chin, asking for a kiss, which he will never, never deny her. His mouth touches hers gently. She tastes like sleep, and a little like the herbs Keely keeps feeding her, and still faintly like magic though it's been days since she conjured.

"Not my home," she says when he lifts his head.

"What?"

"You said I was safe at home. I'm glad to be safe, but our home isn't here."

Maybe. He licks her lower lip gently, unable to resist now that kissing her is no longer forbidden. "We'll see. Stay under your blankets. You got cold the last time I left you. I'll be quick, I promise."

Leaving the room wrenches. He's unsure as she disappears from sight whether he can actually do this. Keely's nearby, he knows she is, but just crossing the hall for a bath stole all Maeve's warmth the last time he left her and he doesn't want to risk that again. His ears strain for any hint of Keely's sharp, acerbic voice, or even the call of a child who might take her a message, but on a day as sunny as this the house lies silent, all the children outside. The scarcity of truly warm sunshine makes them cherish it all the more, and they take advantage of it while they can. Keely will be working in either the garden or the library, and as either is equally likely, Sinbad opts to try the books first. His feet take him swiftly up the stairs, and it's a lucky guess.

He finds her in the library workroom, her face and hands smudged with ink as she labors over a sheet of parchment. Her hand is steady and sure as she draws her quill down the page, her lines sharp and black and perfectly straight, the curves not so much curves as jutting corners, so unlike his written language. Hers looks very masculine, hard and unyielding, like soldiers marching along the page. He's always thought his looks more feminine, soft and graceful in comparison. Whether Celts had their own system of writing before adopting the Roman alphabet he doesn't know, but the way it looks on the page and the way it sounds to the ear are not very complementary.

She ignores him until she finishes her word, then lifts the quill deliberately from the page, resting it on a bit of stained linen. Her eyes rise from her work, and gleam green when she sees him. "She's awake."

He nods wordlessly. She's awake. She's lucid. Her memory is a shambles, but that's to be expected.

"Fucking finally. Go tell Wren. She should be in or near the kitchen. I want Maeve to eat something solid before she falls asleep again. But don't dawdle. You know what happened last time."

Yes, he does, and he's no keener on a repeat than she is. "You said the side effects might fade."

"As she recovers, aye. Or they may not. I don't trust anything with that damned bracelet involved." She wipes her hands on a rag, which does nothing for the ink stains, and heads for the door.

Sinbad obeys her request. Maeve desperately needs food, and she also deserves a moment alone with her sister, though he's unwilling to give her much more than that until he knows how far he can go, how long he can stay away, without triggering that desperate cold. He moves swiftly past the empty sitting room with the giant windows, little square panes of glass flooding the house with light. Beyond, he can see Mia on her fat little pony, doggedly trying to keep up with Brandon on his bigger horse. She's a fearless little thing, laughing as she goads her lazy pony along, heedless to the fact that she could never possibly win this race. She doesn't seem to care about the odds. In this moment, he prays to all the gods that his own daughter is like her _sìthiche_ cousin, just as determined and just as fearless.

"Sinbad," Wren greets him, looking up from her work in surprise when he enters the kitchen. It's baking day, apparently, and she's up to her elbows in wheat flour, kneading bread dough with a savage strength that belies her delicate frame. Con plays at her feet under the work table. "I didn't expect to see you downstairs. Is something wrong?"

He shakes his head swiftly. "She's awake. Keely said she needs food."

Wren beams. "That's my girl. Fill a cup with broth and take it back up with you. I'll clean up and bring her something solid."

He fills a mug from the pot always kept hot at the edge of the fire. Bones and meat and vegetable scraps go in throughout the day, along with salt and herbs and more water as needed, the stock always cooking, always replenishing. He brings the steaming cup upstairs, cautious as he pushes open the door. He doesn't want to just barge in on them, but he can't stay away.

Keely's stretched out on the bed with Maeve, their heads close together as they speak quietly. It reminds him of the night Antoine brought him here to ease his worry for his missing sorceress, the night he saw all the girls sleeping together in a jumbled heap like a litter of pups. It struck him as strange, until he learned the whole story of how Maeve grew up, how she survived after the burning of Brí Leith. Now it makes perfect sense. She had no home, no warm hearth to curl near, no roof to shield her from the rain, the snow. Instead she and her siblings used each other for warmth, huddled close under dripping canvas, turning to their fellow living beings for both heat and comfort. He's not surprised that they still do it from time to time, regardless of their altered circumstances.

"Are you cold at all?" Sinbad asks cautiously, offering the mug.

Maeve nods. Her eyes are wet, her expression troubled. "I didn't mean to trap you."

"Nobody trapped anybody. I thought we already settled that?" He touches her cheek lightly. "I'm exactly where I need to be. I just wish we knew a little more about that spell, the limits of it. How far I can go without hurting you."

"I'll apologize for that once, and only once," Keely says, holding her belly with one hand as she heaves herself upright. "Oh, good gods. They say I have some tree-spirit in my family line somewhere. Bullshit. This kid's no tree. He's a fucking boulder." She blows her bright green forelock out of her eyes. "You know what? I take it back. I'm not going to apologize at all. I'm not a sorceress, I have no idea what that bedeviled bracelet is, and I did the only thing I could to save your life. We're all just going to have to deal with the consequences. No one's dead yet, so I consider that an improvement over the alternative."

Maeve squeezes her sister's hand. Her cheek was cool when Sinbad touched her, but she's not actively shivering. He's happy to know those few minutes don't seem to have harmed her, at least, and she has hot broth to help warm her back up.

"Wren's bringing you food," he says. "Do you think you can eat?"

"Let me help you turn on your side." Keely sets a hand gently on Maeve's hip. "Don't raise up any higher, remember. I need you as still and as flat as possible."

Maeve's pale skin whitens further at the reminder. "I'm sorry," she whispers as Sinbad carefully passes her the mug. "I didn't mean to leave the Nomad like that. I didn't know it would happen. I was just wishing so hard to get away, and then suddenly I was lost in darkness."

"Will you quit that?" Keely snaps irritably. "You and Sinbad are a matched pair, moping all over the place, so eager to take the blame for everything. You both have serious issues with guilt. Have you been hanging out with the pope's followers? It sure seems like it, and it's getting old fast. You want to place some blame for the state of your health, your daughter's health? Fine. Great. Place it where it belongs—on Scratch. Rumina. The fucking giant who fucking _attacked_ you. Loathe them all you like. A little well-placed anger can be wonderful motivation. But not self-hatred. That's just wasted energy. How someone as intelligent as you can't see that, I don't know. Do not waste time and energy tearing yourself down, do you hear me? You don't have them to waste. If you want to get better, want that baby to get better, you need to knock that shit off."

Maeve stares at her sister. Sinbad wonders if Keely's gone too far. Ordinarily Maeve gives as good as she gets, but this isn't the time for them to start one of their legendary screaming matches.

But, no. Instead of buckling or screaming back, Maeve laughs. It's tired and small, but very real. "You sound like Cairpra. Without the cursing."

Keely snorts. "Without the cursing no one pays attention. Drink your broth."

Sinbad decides that sisters are very strange things. Not nearly as straightforward as brothers.

Of course, how would he know? He badly misjudged his brother, with disastrous consequences.

"I want my blanket," Maeve says, huddling under her pile of them and sipping obediently at the mug in her hands. She's not in a good mood, as Keely predicted days ago she would not be. Sinbad doesn't care. She can be as petulant as she wants, and she's more than earned a little pampering if she's finally ready to accept it.

"Here," he says, tapping on the heavy blue feather-filled blanket atop the pile. "You have so many already, I don't know that another will make any difference."

"That's Nessa's. I want mine."

Keely rolls her eyes. "I'm just as pregnant as you, so don't pull that moody shit with me. This one's fine. Better, maybe. Who knows how filthy yours is, after being on that fucking ship for so long? It's probably infested with fleas by now. Or lice. Or both."

Sinbad frowns. He runs a clean ship. If there are any bugs aboard, it's only because they came in with some cargo.

"I still want it."

"Can we fetch it?" Sinbad asks, settling on the edge of the bed, his hand coming to rest lightly on Maeve's bent knee. "I think her bracelet's still on the Nomad, too, and leaving that lying around is just asking for trouble."

"No, her bracelet was in your pocket. I found it when I dumped you in bed, and I hid it so she can't try to go haring off before she's healed."

"Hey!" Maeve's head jerks up. "I'm right here. I may or may not have traveled through the underworld—I'm still not clear on that—but I'm not currently dead. Or deaf."

"So I'll say it to your face: I hid your opal, the one connected to your ship, so you can't go running off before you're healed. Happy now?"

Maeve considers this. "Yes. We'll deal with the hiding later. I'm too tired right now."

"If you're too tired to argue with me, you're too tired to leave. And you can't get up anyway. Not if you want to stay pregnant."

Maeve scowls. Sinbad can see that, once she starts feeling better, she's going to be a difficult patient. Weakness irritates the hell out of her, and she's not the kind who enjoys lying still. She'll do it, because she has no choice if she wants her daughter to live. But she won't be happy about it.

Personally, he's delighted to see her sour mood. She's strong enough to be cranky, and he considers that a step forward.

"We can talk about fetching your stupid blanket, and anything else you might have left on board," Keely says grudgingly as the door opens, admitting Wren. "But it won't be today. Cara caught sick after using too much of her magic, and the rest of us aren't quite back to normal yet. And I admit, I'm curious about the ally you mentioned, the sorceress in the south. I'd rather use my energy trying to contact her first, to learn what she knows."

"Cara?" Maeve accepts Wren's kiss and trades her empty mug for the tray in her hands. Wren brought her sliced bread topped with toasted cheese, the edges brown and bubbling hot, a pear cut in wedges as she does for the smallest children, and more of Keely's herbal brew.

"My new apprentice. I wouldn't have picked this time to take one, but the council didn't exactly give me a choice. And she needs a stable home, the gods know."

"Orphaned?" Maeve asks, picking at her plate cautiously.

"And been through hell. She's _sìthiche_, though you wouldn't know it. The pope's men from the monastery in Clonard got hold of her, but instead of killing her they decided to try to civilize her instead. Burned off her wings, melted the tips of her ears away. An accident during the process left her with that burn on the left side of her face. She can't see out of that eye anymore, and I can't fix it. She won't talk about how she escaped—I suspect one of the brothers or their servants may have taken pity on her and let her go so she could die in peace in the forest. But she's a tough little thing, and she survived." Her mouth presses together tightly.

Maeve's does, too. "I hate this."

"You and me both."

"So the council sent her to you? Tried to clean up the mess the monastery made?"

"I don't know who found her, but her burns were horribly festered and she probably would have died from them. The council had her sent to a different Breakwater, one with a more experienced healer. He would have kept her after she was cured, but he already has three apprentices and I had none. Kids everywhere, but no apprentices." She smiles wearily. "My turn. It's fine. We'll muddle through. We always do, and she's a good kid. Timid as a fawn but no trouble, and she has more natural talent than I ever did. I just have to be mindful not to scare her." She rolls her eyes. "Apparently I can be intimidating."

"Imagine that." Maeve shares a grin with her sister.

"You've done well," Wren says, holding Maeve's empty mug in her hands. "Better than I thought you would, at first. And she's strong under that timid exterior. She's slowly coming around to Niall, even, and he's a Roman man, same as the brothers who caught her."

"I think she'd take to Ant faster than me, but that's not an option right now." Keely swears and flops back down on the mattress, tossing her arm lightly over Maeve's waist. "Do not apologize. Neither of you. I meant it when I said I was sick of it, and he made his own choices. You didn't make him leave."

Sinbad can see how Maeve struggles with this, the guilt she still feels despite whatever explanation Keely gave her while he was gone. Her pain hurts him in a very physical, tactile way, but he can do nothing except squeeze her knee, lend her the support of his presence. This is something she will have to work out in her own mind. If Keely telling her she's not at fault doesn't help, his echo of her sister's words won't, either.

"Thank you for bringing Sinbad to me," Maeve says instead, pointedly addressing Wren and not Keely. "And for helping with whatever that spell was. I know magic's not easy for you."

"I'm just glad you're safe. And lucid. You scared everyone when you woke up last time, talking about Scratch."

"I know." Maeve stifles a yawn. She hasn't eaten much, but if Keely doesn't complain Sinbad isn't sure he has a right to, either. "I can't really explain it, even now. But I can't believe it was just a dream."

"It may not have been, though hell if I know how." Keely produces a small wooden comb and begins slowly picking at the knots in Maeve's hair. "That's why I'm curious to talk to your southern sorceress. Getting lost between worlds makes perfect sense, and I wouldn't put it past Scratch to play his tricks while you were undefended." She scowls. "Hideous demon. It won't be pretty when he figures out where you are, you know."

Sinbad's head jerks up, and his hand tightens on Maeve's knee. "I thought you said he couldn't touch us here."

"He can't touch the island. Can't touch anyone on it. You're perfectly safe. But the sea's another matter. He's tried to storm his way into all the Breakwaters at one time or another, I think. Idiot. The same spells guard us all. If he can't break into one, he can't break into any." She makes a hideous face. "He threw a tantrum when he couldn't get in here. It was terrifying, and that's coming from me. The boys hid under their bed and cried for hours. Mia was about two. She was fascinated. Of course."

"I want to talk to Cairpra," Maeve says, stifling another yawn. "She saved me. I would have died in that darkness without her, or maybe gone away with Scratch if he told me to. If it really was real, I need to thank her."

"Next time you wake," Keely says readily enough. "You won't last through the conjuring required to set up a link today. And you've been on your side long enough. If you're done eating, turn back over."

Maeve obeys without complaint, which tells Sinbad how tired she is. He takes the tray to her desk, then returns swiftly to his spot as Keely settles her on her back once more.

"Why would you have ever gone with Scratch?" he asks, sickened at the thought. He doesn't know what Scratch's underworld is like, but he knows it can't be a pleasant place. Maeve doesn't belong there. His Fin doesn't belong there.

She compresses her pretty mouth, those perfect lips thinning into a slim line. "I don't want to talk about it."

Okay. He won't bother her about it now. She's beyond earned the right to do what she wants without pressure.

"I want you to sleep some more," Keely says, hugging her firmly, her arm tight around Maeve's shoulders, her cheek buried in the tangles of her hair. "Honestly, you probably won't be doing much else for a while. Just relax and let your body do what it needs to do. Sinbad can't leave you, but there are plenty of books upstairs if he gets bored, and the kids are always in and out. They're a great distraction. So there's nothing for you to worry about. I'm keeping an eye on things, making sure your daughter's not in distress. So rest."

"I can do that," Maeve says, exhaling a deep, weary breath. Sinbad hopes it's the truth. She's never been very good at it before.

"Good. When you wake next, if you're feeling up to it, I'll see if Niall can help us reach your Cairpra. It'll take both of us to manage. The thing is, I'm not a sorceress. If I was, maybe this whole questing nonsense could have been avoided. Maybe you and I could have stopped Rumina before she ever cursed Dermott. But that's not how the story went. I'm a healer. Wren's a mother. Niall's a...I don't even know what to call him. A failed monk, that's for sure. And we don't have any adult _sìthichean_ anymore, just small children."

"I'm a sorceress," Maeve says.

"Half-trained, and if I see you so much as lighting a candle with your magic I will return Sinbad to his ship without you, I don't care how cold you get." She's bluffing and everyone knows it. "Just rest. We'll do what we can do as we can do it. Things aren't so easy anymore without Nessa and Ant, but most people get by without any magic at all so I have no right to complain."

"You got spoiled with so much _sìthiche_ magic."

"We did," Keely agrees. "And with so many hands to help around this place."

"What happens when Ant comes back? He said—"

"I don't give a rat's ass what he said. When he comes back—if he comes back—he has a hell of a lot of apologizing to do. Not just to you, but to all of us. Especially those two little girls he abandoned. Mia can be placated, but Lily's a mess. With their ages I thought it would be the other way around, but Lily screams herself sick nightly. She doesn't want me, doesn't want her sister, doesn't want Wren or Niall. Just her da, and he's not here."

This is something Maeve doesn't ever have to worry about. Sinbad knows he couldn't ever make the same choice Antoine did. He has no brother anymore, but even for Doubar he couldn't walk away from Maeve and his daughter. They're a package deal now. Hearing Lily cry for her father breaks his heart, and he's glad Antoine will have to face Keely's fury when he returns. He deserves it.

"So rest, _l__eannán_. We'll get all the answers we can from your southern sorceress, and get you your blanket back if we must, but it's not as important right now as keeping you healthy. Be a terrible patient some other time. Listen to me for once, and rest."

And, for once, Maeve does.


End file.
